after publishing “hi, im dave”, the urge to write more stuff involving dave and his family (as well as him and noah interactions bc to me they’re family friends) both pre, post, and during tdpi has grabbed ahold of me
summary - no matter how hard you try, you can’t quit jack abbot.
wc - 12.4k (SORRY IM USED TO WRITING SERIES FR)
warnings/tags - MDNI, toxic jack, toxic reader, reader is described as female, angst, good friend ellis, probable inaccuracies for nurse duties, jealous jack, avoidant reader, avoidant jack, unprotected p in v, reader does something so toxic for jack, resolution at the end
a/n -- inspired by the song 'stop' by bella kay -- ok i had a real fun time with this one. This is for all my baddies who have been in a situationship beforeeeee shit is not for the weak! This went on for a while and possibly lost the plot toward the end but idk yall let me know what you think I’m still new to one-shots hehe
masterlist
The lights in the PTMC were giving you a headache.
Bright, fluorescent, and just harsh enough to remind you that you hadn’t gotten nearly enough sleep this afternoon. And now an incoming GSW was exactly what you needed to get the adrenaline pumping again.
You’d always loved the night shift. There was something about working while most of the city slept, even though the world outside never really stopped moving.
Sure, it didn’t leave much room for a social life beyond the friends you’d made in the ED, and your version of nightlife looked a lot different from most young, single people your age.
Not that you minded.
You’d traded clubs for dive bars sometime in your mid-twenties anyway.
These days, your idea of unwinding was nursing a strong cocktail in a dimly lit booth, the kind of place with sticky floors and questionable music. Sometimes with your favorite coworkers. Sometimes alone.
And afterward?
Well.
A little stress relief never hurt anybody.
“Where’d you go just now?”
The sound of a tablet scraping across the main desk of the Pitt pulled you from whatever mental vacation you’d been taking.
You blinked twice and looked up to find Dr. Ellis standing across from you, peering down slightly as you practically slumped against the desk. Papers were scattered in front of you, charts half-finished, and your collection of glitter pens lay in disarray from when you’d knocked over the holder while chasing a naked patient down the hallway an hour ago.
“Oh, you know.” You waved a hand vaguely. “My happy place.”
The sarcasm was obvious—a reference to the self-care seminar Robby had forced every nurse to attend last month.
You waved yourself off, changing the subject. “What’s the ETA on the GSW?”
“Rerouted to Westbridge. We may actually get a chance to—”
“Don’t you dare say it.”
Shen appeared beside you, leaning onto the desk with an iced coffee in hand.
“You gonna put a coaster under that Pink Drink?” you asked, nodding toward the condensation already racing down the side of the plastic cup. “Or you gonna let it sweat all over someone’s x-rays?”
Shen scoffed.
“I’ve told you before. It’s only pink because of the limited-edition strawberry syrup.”
He said it like you were somehow the ridiculous one.
“As long as it’s not the Sabrina Carpenter drink anymore, I don’t give two shits what’s in it.”
Ellis shot you a look of agreement. “I cannot listen to the chorus of Espresso one more time for at least six months.”
“But it’s the song of the summer!”
“It was the song of the summer. Two years ago, Shen.”
Shaking your head, you grabbed a coaster and slid it beneath his cup since he seemed entirely uninterested in doing it himself.
Shen muttered something under his breath about being “culturally underappreciated” before taking a giant slurp from his iced coffee.
“See?” Ellis said, watching him intently. “This is why we can’t have nice things.
“No, lack of public funding is why we can’t have nice things.”
“You seem slightly more aggressive than usual. What’s up?”
“Other than the fact that I slept maybe three hours earlier?” You rubbed your forehead, keeping your eyes trained on the double doors like if you stayed vigilant enough, gurneys and EMTs would simply stop coming through them. “Existential dread. The naked patient practically assaulting me earlier. The parent who claimed I was indoctrinating their child into Buddhism—a religion I do not practice.”
She whistled.
“Been a minute, huh?”
Your eyes narrowed.
“Since what?”
“Since you’ve seen him.”
Your face twisted into something that could only be described as a mixture of surprise and disdain.
Shen’s eyes darted between you two, leaning in slightly closer to you in anticipation as his mouth was somehow still wrapped around the orange and pink straw.
“Am I supposed to know who you’re talking about?”
“Oh, come on. Every time you show up here in a foul mood, it’s been at least a week since you and him met up. You’re practically a billboard with ‘needs to get laid’ written across it in bright red font.”
“I am not that readable.”
Shen decided this was a good time to join in, adding, “Earlier, you told Whitaker he should consider putting up a ‘For Sale’ sign for tiny elves to live in his hair.”
You frowned, eyes still fixed on the double doors as your fingers fidgeted with your badge.
“Okay, and was I wrong? He needs a curl routine. I’ve been telling him that for a year now. It’s not a good look for us.”
She offered you an amused smile, the kind she always did. Parker Ellis was probably your favorite doctor in the department—always willing to help despite half of it falling outside her responsibilities, always ready with advice when you needed it. You knew she didn’t hand that out to everyone, which only made you appreciate it more.
And Shen was…well, he was Shen. You got a laugh out of him every so often.
You didn’t typically make a habit of getting close with the doctors, as they tended to be in and out of a hospital most of the time. The other nurses were more your speed, but something about the doctors of the night shift—
“Hey, we all need ways to relieve stress when we work in a place like this. I take edibles. Shen plays a concerning amount of Minecraft. You choose to indulge in a toxic situationship with a guy who only calls you when he wants to get his rocks off.”
“Okay, when you say it like that, it sounds pathetic.”
“Shen’s Minecraft addiction is pathetic.”
“The fuck?” Shen scrunched his face at the stray comment, but Ellis only continued.
You bit the inside of your cheek, failing miserably at suppressing your laughter as you leaned forward, pressing your forehead briefly against his shoulder.
She pointed a finger at you. “—You’re a consenting adult. As long as nobody’s getting hurt, who cares if all you and this dude see each other for is sex?”
Your stomach tightened a little at that.
Her question didn’t exactly sit well because—
She added, “Plus, from what you’ve told me, it’s pretty damn good.”
A throat cleared beside you.
You were a nurse in an emergency department. It didn’t exactly say it in the job posting, but “know the vibes of every doctor who works here and find a way to cohesively fit into the team so you can make their lives easier because that’ll actually make your life easier” might as well have been in the fine print. At least, that’s what Dana told you on your first day.
So you knew how different residents operated. You knew how the interns behaved. And you definitely knew how attendings liked to, well, attend.
And this particular attending usually cleared his throat when he found you chatting at the desk with doctors that weren’t him.
You straightened, your expression tightening—not at all like a kid caught talking in class—as your eyes met his.
Dr. Jack Abbot had a particular habit of appearing whenever you were having a perfectly pleasant conversation with another doctor.
It was one of the more irritating things about him.
You’d noticed it months ago.
The second he caught you leaning against a desk with Shen, laughing at something Ellis said, or discussing anything not directly related to patient care, he’d suddenly remember a task that needed doing. A chart that needed updating. A patient that needed medication. An ortho consult that should’ve been paged five minutes ago.
Always work-related.
And always suspiciously timed.
You knew how attendings operated. You knew which ones were strict, which ones were laid back, which ones expected perfection and which ones expected effort.
Jack wasn’t actually hard on you.
The annoying part was that he seemed to save this particular brand of impatience exclusively for moments when you were talking to somebody else.
Which bothered you more than you’d ever admit out loud because you were good at your job.
Your patient satisfaction scores were always high. You stayed late when people needed help. Even Gloria had thrown the occasional “good work” your way, which was practically a standing ovation.
So every time he acted like you were one conversation away from bringing the entire department to its knees, it got under your skin.
“Are we almost through with the social hour,” he asked, hands tucked casually into his pockets, “or can we get some morphine to bed three sometime tonight?”
Right on schedule.
You glanced at the clock—you’d been standing there for approximately forty-five seconds.
“No, we’re through,” you offered him a saccharine smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.
“Good.” He nodded once, now turning to Shen. “You’re needed in Peds.”
He stepped past Ellis, whose eyes tracked him before flicking back to you. Shen trailed behind, a mischievous look on his face. She let out a small huff of laughter, then glanced after him again.
Until she looked at you, which, your facial expression could only be described as someone who had just had their parade rained on, set on fire, and then clinically assessed by Jack Abbot
“Yeah…maybe call dude up and see if you can find some time,” she said. “Because you’re wound tighter than wire around a coil.”
“I can relieve stress without sacrificing my self-respect, Ellis.”
“Can you?”
You scoffed, clutching a hand to your chest in exaggerated offense.
“I don’t need some man to help me relax—especially not one who’s as emotionally constipated as this guy is.”
You gathered your pens quickly and messily, stress and dishonesty practically radiating off you in waves. Ellis watched with a knowing look as you shoved a blue glitter pen into the pocket of your scrubs. One sleeve of your baby pink undershirt was pushed halfway up your arm, the other hanging past your wrist.
You were a mess.
“You can’t quit him, can you?” she asked bluntly.
Your head jerked up, strands of hair falling across your cheeks.
“I can stop whenever I want.”
The rest of the shift didn’t get any kinder.
It never did.
A patient screamed at you because the wait time “felt like a violation of human rights,” which, according to him, apparently included triage priority and two actively coding traumas that had rolled in back-to-back.
Another tried to leave against medical advice with an IV still in, insisting you were “controlling the narrative of his body autonomy,” which you would’ve laughed at if you weren’t already three coffees deep and running on pure spite.
The coffee was its own horror story.
Burnt, lukewarm, and somehow still sour, like it had given up on being coffee halfway through its existence. You drank it anyway.
By the time the worst of the chaos finally slowed, your scrubs felt like they had absorbed the entire shift—bloodless but heavy, like your exhaustion had physical weight. Your head ached in that dull, persistent way that made every overhead announcement sound like it was being shouted directly inside your eardrums.
You charted on autopilot. Answered pages. Signed off on things you barely remembered reading.
And all the while, there was that steady hum underneath everything.
Not the monitors beeping or the coding alarms.
You.
Something restless in your chest that wouldn’t settle no matter how much you moved, no matter how much you did, no matter how many people you helped.
When you finally clocked out, the morning air hit you like a kind of mercy.
It was quiet. Empty enough to feel almost unreal after the controlled chaos of the ED. You liked how walking out of a shift into a brand new day felt like a fresh start.
You sat in your car for a moment before starting it.
Hands on the wheel. Forehead leaning briefly against it. Eyes closed.
The silence should’ve helped—but it didn’t. Because now there was nothing to distract you from your own thoughts.
From the shift replaying in fragments—flourescent lights, Ellis’s teasing, Jack’s annoyed glance across the desk, the way your body always seemed to register him before your mind caught up.
And worse than that.
The way your mind kept circling back to the same thing, over and over, like a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing. The way his eyes flicked between your chin on Shen’s shoulder, the sharpness in his stare when he’d paused—just for a second too long—before speaking.
The way it shouldn’t have meant anything.
And the worst part was how quickly he’d buried it again, like nothing had happened at all.
You exhaled slowly, started the car, and just drove.
Traffic lights sliding over your windshield in slow, rhythmic pulses. Red. Green. Red again. The city moving around you like it didn’t know or care what kind of night shift you’d had.
Your hands stayed steady on the wheel, but your mind didn’t.
It kept drifting back to relief.
To something that would make the tightness in your chest loosen for even a little while.
And the more you tried not to think about it, the more obvious it became what your body was already deciding for you.
You didn’t end up at home.
You didn’t even hesitate when you pulled into his building.
You just sat there for a second in the driver’s seat, engine ticking softly as it cooled, staring up at the familiar windows.
Then you got out.
Second guessed your decision.
You walked up anyway.
Because you could tell yourself a lot of things.
That it was just stress.
That it was just habit.
But your hand was already lifting before you could talk yourself out of it.
And then you were knocking on Jack Abbot’s door.
Like he was expecting you, he swung the door open with a familiarity that always managed to piss you off.
You hated being expected. It meant you weren’t as convincing as you thought every time you swore it was the last time.
“Back so soon?” he asked.
There were two voices in your head.
The first was logical. The one that listed consequences and self-respect and the long, boring, very healthy path of walking away.
The second was louder.
And a hell of a lot faster.
“Shut up,” you said.
And then your lips were on his.
There was no hesitation from him.
His hand came up to your jaw like it had done this before, like it knew exactly where you’d break and where you wouldn’t. The door clicked shut behind you, but you barely registered it.
Not when he was already pulling you closer.
Not when the shift started dissolving at the edges the way it always did the second he touched you.
You told yourself, distantly, that you’d meant to stop.
That you’d been serious this time.
That you were still someone who made decisions and followed through on them.
But that version of you didn’t stand a chance in his apartment.
“What did I tell you about sitting around and talking on shift?” His voice was low against your mouth.
Your hands found his chest—whether to push him away or pull him closer, you weren't entirely sure. The fabric of his shirt was soft under your palms, warm from his body, and you could feel his heartbeat beneath it. Steady. Unhurried.
Like he had all the time in the world.
“I told you,” You glared up at him defiantly. “I’d stop when you admitted why it bothers you so much,”
He walked you backward until your shoulders hit the wall, and the impact sent a jolt through you that had nothing to do with the collision. His knee slid between your thighs, and you made a sound that would've embarrassed you if you had any dignity left to spare.
You didn't.
Not here. Not with him.
“It doesn’t bother me,”
His lips moved to your jaw, then lower, tracing a path down the side of your neck that made your breath hitch.
“You’re such a liar,” You tilted your head without thinking, giving him access, and felt his mouth curve into a smile against your skin.
Smug bastard.
"Guessing this is the last time?" he murmured, changing the subject like he always did, rough in a way that shouldn't have worked as well as it did.
Your eyes snapped open.
The audacity.
"Keep opening your mouth," you said, breathless but sharp, "and I'll walk out."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the expression on his face was infuriating. Amused. Knowing. Like he could see straight through every lie you'd ever told yourself about this.
About him.
"We both know you won't."
Your jaw tightened.
Because he was right, and you both knew it, and that made it so much worse.
You should've said something cutting. Should've shoved him back and proven him wrong just to wipe that look off his face.
Instead, you kissed him again.
Harder this time. Angrier, maybe. Your fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer even as some distant part of your brain screamed at you to stop. To leave. To have even a shred of self-respect.
But his hands were on your waist now, thumbs pressing into your hips through the thin fabric of your scrubs, and every coherent thought you'd had dissolved under the weight of it.
This was what you'd come here for.
Not conversation. Not comfort.
Just this—the way he touched you like he'd memorized every place that made you fall apart. The way your body responded before your mind could catch up. The way everything else faded into background noise.
His mouth moved back to your neck, and you felt his teeth graze your pulse point. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to make you gasp.
"You're terrible at this," he said against your skin.
"At what?"
"Pretending you don't want to be here."
Your hands slid up to his shoulders, nails digging in just enough to make a point.
"You're terrible at shutting up."
He laughed—low and quiet and far too pleased with himself—and the sound vibrated through you in a way that made your knees feel unsteady.
His hands moved lower, fingers slipping just beneath the hem of your scrub top, and the contact of his skin against yours sent a shiver up your spine. Warm. Rough in places. Familiar in a way that made your chest threaten to explode.
You'd told yourself you wouldn't do this again.
You'd meant it, too.
At least in the moment.
But here you were, pressed against his entryway wall at six in the morning, letting him unravel you piece by piece like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Because it was for him.
That was the problem.
He pulled back just enough to look at you again, and there was something in his expression that you couldn't quite read. Something that looked almost like concern, if you didn't know better.
"Long shift?" he asked.
You let out a breathless laugh. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Pretend you care."
His jaw tightened, just slightly, and for a second you thought he might actually say something real. Something that wasn't wrapped in sarcasm or deflection.
But then his mouth was on yours again, and the moment passed.
Maybe that was better.
Your hands found his hair, fingers tangling in it as you kissed him back with everything you had left. All the frustration and exhaustion and restless energy that had been building under your skin for hours—and since the last time a week ago—poured into it.
He made a sound low in his throat, and his grip on your hips tightened.
You were going to regret this.
You always did.
But right now, with his body pressed against yours and his hands pulling you closer, you couldn't bring yourself to care.
Not when this was the only thing that made the tightness in your chest loosen. The only thing that made you feel like you could breathe.
Even if it was temporary.
Even if it was a lie.
His hands slid higher beneath your shirt, and you arched into the touch without thinking. Your back pressed harder against the wall, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you registered that you were still wearing your work shoes.
That you hadn't even made it past the entryway.
That this was exactly how it always went.
But then his mouth found that spot just below your ear, and every rational thought you'd ever had scattered like smoke.
"Bedroom," you managed, though it came out more like a plea than a command.
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and the look on his face was devastating.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Okay."
And then his hand was in yours, and he was leading you deeper into the apartment.
Into the same mistake you'd made a dozen times before.
The one you'd probably make a dozen more times.
You were going insane, to say the least.
After that last time, you once again swore you could stop, and when Jack Abbot laughed in your face, you swore that spite would carry you through.
That was three weeks ago.
Your body was practically screaming at you for release.
It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried—you had your own methods of relief at home, in various sizes and shapes, but he might as well have put a curse on you. He plagued your mind, your thoughts, and now, even your damn fantasies. You couldn’t even get past closing your eyes with your head on the pillow without hearing his voice in your ear.
“Are you listening?”
“No,” You admitted.
Ellis smirked. “Wow, that was easy.”
“I gotta stop,” You said, more so to yourself. “I need to get past this guy, this can’t be healthy.”
“I mean, I could’ve told you that a year ago,”
“See? Even that is embarrassing—doing this for an entire year.”
“How did it even start, anyway?”
Her question was one you often asked yourself.
You were literally there, and somehow it was still remarkable that any of this had managed to happen in the first place.
It had started on one of those rare nights when you didn’t have work. Even rarer, you didn’t have a shift the next day either. So you joined a few of your ED friends for their weekly gathering at the pub down the street from the PTMC.
He was there too.
Before you’d ever spoken to Jack Abbot, you’d noticed him.
You noticed everything about him, actually.
The commanding presence that never felt overbearing. The quiet charm. The way people naturally gravitated toward him without him seeming to ask for their attention.
Then you started working together.
And assisting Jack was easy in a way that shouldn’t have mattered. The two of you seemed to fall into a rhythm almost immediately, anticipating what the other needed before it was said aloud. You worked well with plenty of doctors, but with him it felt different. Smoother.
Natural.
The night at the pub passed slowly, conversations drifting from work gossip to stories about patients to the kind of personal details people only share after a drink or two. You got to know some of the day-shift staff in a way you never really could during a chaotic handoff.
Then, little by little, people started peeling off.
Heading home to partners, spouses, kids, pets.
Eventually, it was just you and Jack left at the table—and neither of you had anyone waiting at home.
So the conversation kept going.
And going.
Until the bartender started flashing the lights for last call.
You could admit now that the alcohol wasn’t the only reason you agreed when he suggested moving the party to his place.
That began a bad habit of spending nights off together at his apartment, which turned into you following him home from work twice a week. Until it was happening every day.
Until—
“I’m calling psych,” Ellis said abruptly. “Dude has you dissociating.”
“Can you cut me some slack?” you groaned. “My sleep score on this stupid Oura ring is averaging like a 42, and no amount of Dunkin from Shen is helping. In fact, it’s probably making it worse.”
“I told you that ring is full of shit.”
“Probably,” you admitted, “but there’s no doubt this whole…situation has tanked my ability to sleep.”
“You know what?” Ellis leaned in slightly, a spark of mischief in her eyes. “I’ve got a friend who’s recently single. Maybe I can set you two up.”
You ignored the immediate flicker of alarm in your chest—the automatic warning your brain always set off at the mere suggestion of entertaining any man who wasn’t the night shift attending.
“I don’t know,” you said instead, fingers fidgeting with your badge—the stupid tell he’d pointed out once.
The second Ellis said it, something in you tightened.
A sharp, instinctive recoil you didn’t get a vote in.
Like your body had heard the suggestion and decided, absolutely not.
It made no sense, really. It was just a date. Just an option sitting harmlessly on the desk between you.
“You know,” you added lightly, like it didn’t matter, like you weren’t suddenly hyperaware of your own pulse, “I’m… probably just not in a dating place right now.”
Her head tilted in that knowing way. “Not in a dating place.”
“Yeah,” you said quickly. “Night shift keeps me way too busy—”
“Yet you have time to get in that man’s bed?”
The words hit before you could stop them from hitting. Your brain didn’t even get a chance to form a response—
—Because, conveniently, Crus appeared like a lifeline in scrubs, walking up with a chart for Ellis to sign, as if he’d been sent by the universe specifically to rescue you from this conversation.
Your face lit up at the sudden exit.
“I totally forgot Crus put a pot of coffee on earlier. I’m gonna go try it!”
And before anyone could stop you, you were already backing away from the desk.
Fast.
A little too fast.
“No, I didn’t—” He started.
“Thanks, Crusy!”
You were gone before she could finish.
Crus blinked, looking between you and Ellis as you disappeared down the hall. “What the fuck is wrong with her?”
Ellis didn’t even look up from the chart.
“Avoidant attachment.”
Your eyes squeezed shut in relief as you slipped into the break room, the door still in your hand behind your back as you exhaled slowly.
Then the illusion cracked, and you heard a low chuckle cut through the silence.
You didn’t open your eyes. Didn’t need to.
“Mid-shift pick-me-up?”
You scowled in the direction of his voice, finally letting your eyes open. Jack was standing between you and the whirring coffee pot, one arm lazily leaning on the back of a chair like he had nowhere better to be, like he hadn’t just fucked your entire attempt at emotional escape.
“Is there any more?” you asked, because you could be strong. You could be level-headed around him.
“I’m makin’ some,” he said. “Someone drank all of it.”
He tilted his head slightly, eyes flicking down over you in that quiet, habitual way he had. Not obvious—never obvious. Just enough to feel.
“Someone tired.”
“Hm,” you hummed, refusing to give him the satisfaction of admitting that you, in fact, were not getting any sleep.
“Been a while,” he added after a beat.
His gaze lifted again, slower this time, like he was taking inventory. Like he needed to memorize you again after any stretch of absence.
“I told you,” you said, crossing your arms as you stepped further into the room. “That was the last time.”
“Sure it was.”
Maybe it was his tone. Maybe it was the disbelief. Or maybe it was the fact that you’d tried—unsuccessfully—to get yourself over the finish line this morning three separate times before you finally gave up on hearing his voice in your head.
Either way, something in you snapped.
You walked closer, eyes locked on his, mouth set in a thin, controlled line.
“I meant it that night,” you said, tipping your head up to meet his gaze. “I’m done.”
“Are you?”
“Yep. I even have a date.”
Something flashed in his eyes—quick, unreadable—but it was gone almost as soon as it appeared, replaced by something sharper. More challenging.
“A date.”
“Ellis’ friend. She’s setting it up.”
“And when is this ‘date’?”
You hated the way he said it.
Like it wasn’t real. Like it wasn’t solid yet. Like it didn’t deserve space in the same room as him.
And sure, okay, it wasn’t.
But it still made your jaw tighten.
“What do you care?”
“So I can be available,” he said evenly, “for when you inevitably come by after.”
Your eyes narrowed.
“Well that’s presumptuous.”
“Is it?” His gaze didn’t move from yours. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
You almost choked on the speed at which you snapped back.
“That—that was because we had just had that mass casualty that fucked me up and you know that.”
“I also know,” he said, voice calmer now, almost tired in the way he said it, “that you tend to try to date other people.”
A beat.
“And somehow,” he added, eyes still on you, “you still end up here.”
“I can assure you, Dr. Abbot,” you said, smiling softly—mocking, sweet—using his title the way he’d told you to in public. “I can, in fact, date other people.”
He bent down slowly, bringing himself to your level. Close enough that the space between you stopped feeling like space at all.
“I’d love to see you try.”
And that’s how you ended up at a bar.
Sitting across from Ellis’ friend.
Ordering drinks. Making polite conversation. Nodding at the right moments. Smiling at the right times.
You did everything you were supposed to do.
You even laughed once or twice.
Ellis’ friend was nice. Normal. Stable in the way that should’ve felt like relief.
He didn’t have a traumatic past, or carefully measured words that felt like something else was always hiding underneath them. No guarded edges. No unreadable silences that made you feel like you were constantly trying to translate him.
And yet, every time your phone buzzed against the table, your attention flicked to it before you could stop yourself.
Every time the door opened behind him, something in your chest tightened on instinct.
And every time it wasn’t him, you hated yourself a little more for noticing.
This was what you wanted, right?
Distance.
Options.
Proof.
A life that didn’t orbit a man who barely admitted you mattered outside of four walls and a locked door.
But instead, you just kept thinking about how quiet your apartment would be after this. How loud your thoughts would be.
And how unfair it was that even here—on a date you’d insisted you could handle—you still felt like you were waiting for something else.
Ellis’ friend excused himself to use the restroom, giving your brain a brief opening—just enough quiet to pull you back to a night you hadn’t fully unpacked.
A night you almost told Ellis about.
It had been somewhere in the middle of it all—those weeks where “indulging” had stopped feeling like a choice and started feeling like a routine.
You remember stopping at his front door, scrubs wrinkled from where they’d been tossed somewhere on his bedroom floor, hair slightly mussed, still carrying the aftermath of him in the most intoxicating way.
You’d turned to him in the doorway, eyes lifting to his.
That expectant look you wore sometimes. The one that, for some reason, seemed to scare him more than anything else.
“Hey,” you started carefully. “What do we say if people ask, you know…”
“We don’t say anything.”
His voice hadn’t been soft.
It hadn’t been cruel either.
Just certain.
You blinked. “Right, but… like, what is it?”
A shift.
Barely there, but you saw it. The way he opened the door a little wider. His mouth parted, like he was going to explain it. Clarify it. Do something that would either help you or hurt you.
And you couldn’t stand the idea of either.
So you stopped him.
“Sorry,” you laughed quickly, even though something in your chest was already starting to cave in on itself. “Right. Yeah. Obviously this is nothing—you’re the attending. I just meant like, so no one at work mentions it. And you don’t get in trouble. I mean, you’re not technically my superior anyway, so we’re probably fine. And now I’m rambling. I’m gonna go.”
“Hey, I—”
“No, Dr. Abbot, you really don’t need to say anything. We’re good.”
A beat.
“You can… uh. Call me Jack. Here, anyway.”
It should’ve meant something.
And it almost did.
But his usual composure was slightly off, like he was trying to catch up to the moment and not entirely succeeding.
You just nodded. “Sure,” you said softly, already stepping back. “Anyway… see you at work.”
And then you left.
With your pride carefully, quietly, and completely dismantled.
What you didn’t say out loud—what you never said out loud—was that those weeks had started to feel like something you could accidentally get used to.
Sleeping over on nights off. Coffee in the morning. His apartment slowly becoming familiar to you.
And you were naïve enough, back then, to think that familiarity might mean you were building something.
Not just…falling into it alone.
And of course you were—what did you expect? That sleeping with the night-shift attending would somehow evolve into anything other than an inevitable fizzling out?
You had a habit of falling too hard in places you didn’t belong.
And this was just another version of that.
After that night, you both pulled back.
Careful, deliberate distance.
At work, you moved around each other like opposing currents in the same hallway—efficient, professional, slightly off in rhythm. Enough acknowledgment to function, not enough to blur anything further. Contact reduced to necessity. Words clipped.
Waiting, almost.
For something to shift.
For someone to say something that neither of you were willing to be first to say.
Until you broke first.
And after that, the pattern settled in: you’d show up at his place after hard shifts, or on days off when your mind wouldn’t quiet down. You’d get exactly what you knew he was willing to give—nothing more, nothing less.
And then you’d leave.
You’d swear it was the last.
Until it wasn’t.
“Ready to go?” Ellis’ friend asked as he returned to the table.
You nodded, grateful for an excuse to leave before your brain wandered any further down memory lane.
“Yeah. Early shift tomorrow.”
It was a lie.
A small one, but a useful one.
The check was paid and a few minutes later you found yourself in the passenger seat of his car. You’d Ubered to the bar, assuming you’d just call one home afterward.
Back when you’d thought you’d actually be paying attention to this date. But how could you refuse a free ride home?
The drive was pleasant. He was pleasant. That seemed to be the problem—nothing was wrong. No red flags. No awkward silences. No glaring incompatibilities.
Just an overwhelming absence of whatever stupid thing—or person—your brain seemed determined to chase.
Streetlights blurred past outside the window.
You stared at them.
Half-listening as he talked about something involving his neighbor and a broken sprinkler system.
“Alright,” he said eventually, slowing at a red light. “Where am I taking you?”
You answered without thinking.
“Fourth and Mercer.”
The words left your mouth automatically.
Like muscle memory.
Like reciting your own address.
Then you froze.
Because Fourth and Mercer wasn’t your address.
It was Jack’s.
The realization hit about half a second too late.
For a moment, you just stared out the windshield.
Then you laughed.
Once.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
You rubbed a hand over your face.
The normal response would be to correct yourself.
Give him your actual address. Go home. Take off your makeup. Get some sleep.
Maybe unpack whatever psychological damage had just caused you to instinctively send a date to another man’s apartment.
Instead, you found yourself shaking your head.
“Actually…” You looked back out the window. “Yeah. That’s right.”
The second the words left your mouth, you wanted to launch yourself out of the moving vehicle.
Because what the fuck was wrong with you?
Seriously.
What kind of person goes on a date with one man, accidentally gives another man’s address, realizes what they’ve done, and then decides to commit to it?
Apparently you.
You, who had spent the last month insisting you were done.
You, who had spent the last week avoiding him in the hospital whenever possible.
You, who had sat across from a perfectly attractive, emotionally available man for two hours only to subconsciously recite Jack Abbot’s address like it was your own.
Insane.
Clinically insane.
Potentially diagnosable.
If Ellis found out about this, she’d never let you hear the end of it.
Hell, if you found out someone else had done this, you’d tell them to seek professional help immediately.
And yet, the thought of seeing Jack—
You shoved that one away immediately.
Nope.
You were not about to sit here and unpack whatever deeply concerning emotional implications were hidden inside the fact that his address lived in your head rent-free.
Maybe it didn’t mean anything.
Maybe it was muscle memory.
Maybe your brain had been permanently damaged by night shift.
All plausible explanations.
Far more plausible than the alternative.
True delusion and toxicity drove you out of the car.
You offered your date a small wave through the passenger window, ignoring the increasingly bewildered expression on his face, before shutting the door and turning toward the building.
If he had questions, he was kind enough not to ask them.
Which was good.
Because you didn’t have answers.
Your feet carried you up the familiar steps before your brain could mount any meaningful objection. Through the front entrance. Down the hallway. To a door you could probably locate blindfolded at this point.
The realization should’ve horrified you.
Instead, it barely registered.
You knocked once.
And the door swung open almost immediately.
"Don't."
The word came out sharp. A warning.
To him. Maybe to yourself.
But Jack just stood there in the doorway—sweatpants hanging low on his hips, white t-shirt, hands in his pockets—and that look on his face that said he'd been waiting for this exact moment.
Smug didn't even begin to cover it.
You should've turned around.
Should've walked away.
Instead, you grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him toward you.
Your mouth found his before either of you could say another word, and the kiss was immediate. Desperate. All teeth and urgency and the kind of need that made rational thought impossible.
He didn't hesitate.
His hands were on you instantly—one sliding to your waist, the other cupping the back of your neck as he walked you backward until your spine hit the entryway wall with a dull thud.
This was the pattern.
The same one you'd fallen into a dozen times before.
You never made it all the way inside.
Not at first.
Something about the threshold—the space between leaving and staying—always unraveled you both.
His mouth moved against yours with the kind of confidence that made your knees weak, his body pressing into you until there was no space left between you. His hand slid from your waist to your hip, fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp against his lips.
"Even had him drop you off, huh?"
The words were low. Amused. Spoken directly against your mouth between kisses.
Your stomach dropped.
Because of course he knew.
Of course he'd been watching from the window. Of course he'd seen you get out of another man's car and walk straight to his door like you had no other choice.
"Jack—"
"Shh." His thumb brushed along your jaw, tilting your face up as his mouth found the corner of yours. Then your cheek. Then just below your ear. "It's okay."
It wasn't okay.
Nothing about this was okay.
You'd just come from a date with someone else. Someone normal. Someone who didn't make you feel like you were constantly drowning.
And yet here you were, pinned against an entryway wall, heart racing, breath coming in short gasps as Jack's hands roamed over you like he owned every inch.
The worst part?
You wanted him to.
God, you hated yourself for it.
Hated how easily you melted under his touch. How your body responded before your brain could catch up. How the shame of it all only seemed to make you want him more.
His hand slid lower, fingers tracing the hem of your dress, and you bit down on your lip to keep from making a sound.
"So eager to see me," he murmured against your neck, his voice dropping into that register that made your thighs clench. "Couldn't even wait to get inside."
Your hands fisted in his shirt as he kicked the door shut, pulling him closer even as your mind screamed at you to push him away.
"What a good girl, always coming back to me."
The words hit you like a physical thing.
Your breath caught. Heat flooded your face—and lower—and you wanted to argue, wanted to tell him to fuck off, wanted to do anything other than stand there and let him see exactly what those words did to you.
But you couldn't.
Because he knew.
He always knew.
His mouth found yours again, slower this time, more deliberate, and his hand finally slipped beneath the fabric of your dress. Fingers trailing up your thigh with maddening patience.
You made a sound—something between a whimper and a protest—and he smiled against your lips.
"That's it," he said quietly. "Just like that."
You were going to hell.
Or maybe you were already there.
Because the only thing worse than how much you wanted this—wanted him—was how much he knew it.
How easily he could unravel you with a look, a touch, a handful of words that made you feel like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.
Even if it was the last place you should've gone.
His hands moved to your hips, gripping hard enough to leave marks, and he hiked your dress up in one smooth motion. The fabric bunched around your waist as he pulled you closer, one hand sliding to the back of your thigh, lifting your leg to wrap around him.
The wall was cold against your back. Unforgiving.
He wasn't.
Or maybe he was—just in a different way. Unforgiving in the way he kept you circling the same drain, always one step short of whatever this was actually becoming. Always dancing right up to the edge of it, like neither of you could decide who was supposed to fall first.
His mouth found your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there as his other hand worked between you, pushing aside fabric, finding exactly what he wanted with the kind of precision that made your head spin.
"Jack—"
"Yeah," His voice was low, thick with desire. "Right here, sweetheart."
And then he was inside you.
The stretch, the fullness, the way your body yielded to him so easily—it was too much and not enough all at once. Your head fell back against the wall, a broken sound escaping your throat as he held you there, pinned between him and the plaster.
He didn't move. Not yet.
Just stayed there, buried deep, his forehead pressed against your temple, his breath hot against your ear.
"Tell me," he murmured. "Tell me you don't want this."
Your nails dug into his shoulders.
"Jack—"
"Say it." His hips shifted slightly, just enough to make you gasp. "Tell me you don't need this."
You couldn't.
The words wouldn't come.
Because they'd be a lie, and you both knew it.
He pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, before driving back in with enough force to make you cry out. The sound echoed in the narrow entryway, shameless and desperate.
"That's what I thought," he said, his voice dripping with satisfaction.
He set a rhythm then—slow, deliberate, controlled. Each thrust calculated to pull sounds from you that you didn't want to make. Each movement designed to remind you exactly who was in charge here.
"You can't get enough of this, can you?" His hand tightened on your thigh, holding you open for him. "Can't stay away."
"Don't—" The word came out as a whimper.
"Don't what?" He punctuated the question with a particularly deep thrust that had your vision blurring. "Don't tell the truth? Don't make you admit it?"
Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling hard enough that it should've hurt, but he just groaned and moved faster.
"Say it," he demanded, his mouth against your jaw. "Tell me you need this."
"I—" You couldn't finish. Couldn't force the words past the shame and the pleasure tangled so tightly together you couldn't separate them anymore.
He slowed. Almost stopped.
"Say it, or I stop."
"No—" The protest was immediate, desperate. "Please—"
"Please what?"
You swore you hated him.
Hated how easily he could reduce you to this—begging, pleading, completely at his mercy.
"I need it," you gasped out, the admission burning in your throat. "I need—fuck—I need you."
The smile you felt against your skin was pure victory.
"There she is," he murmured, his pace picking up again. "My good girl. So honest when I'm inside you.
The wall dug into your spine with each thrust. Your leg was starting to shake where it was wrapped around him. Everything was too much—the angle, the intensity, the way he looked at you like he'd won something.
Because he had.
"You came straight here," he continued, his voice rough now, control starting to fray at the edges. "Didn't even go home first. Just needed me that badly."
"Yes—" The word broke on a moan.
"Even after your little date. Even after trying so hard to move on."
"Jack—please—"
"Please what? Make you come? Make you forget about him?" His hand slid between you, finding exactly where you needed him. "Make you remember who you belong to?"
You shattered.
The orgasm hit you like a wave, pulling you under, drowning you in sensation. Your body clenched around him, trembling, and you heard yourself crying out his name like a prayer or a curse—you couldn't tell which anymore.
He followed seconds later, his grip on you tightening, his face buried in your neck as he came with a low groan that you felt more than heard.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Just stayed there, pressed together in the hallway, breathing hard, hearts racing.
He followed seconds later, his grip on you tightening, his face buried in your neck as he came with a low groan that you felt more than heard.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Just stayed there, pressed together in the hallway, breathing hard, hearts racing.
Your leg was still wrapped around him. His hand still gripped your thigh. The wall was still cold against your back, but his body was warm—solid—and for just a second, you let yourself stay there.
Before reality could catch up.
Then he pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, and his hand moved to your face. Thumb brushing your cheek in a gesture so gentle it made your chest ache. Mimicking a softness he once showed you, way back before this all got entangled in the way these things did.
"Stay."
The word hung between you.
You blinked. "What?"
"Stay over." His voice was quieter now. "Tonight."
Your heart did something complicated.
Because he'd never asked that before—at least, not since that morning. Not since you'd tried to define this thing and shut it down and he let you walk away pretending it didn't matter.
You stared at him, searching his face for something—anything—that would tell you what this meant.
But his expression was unreadable.
Guarded.
Same as always.
"I—" You started to pull away, to put distance between you, but his hand on your waist kept you there. "I should go."
"How?" he asked simply. "Your date dropped you off, remember?"
The logic of it hit you like cold water.
Right.
You'd given Jack's address. You'd gotten out of the car here. You didn't have your own car. You'd have to call an Uber, and it was late, and—
"I can call a ride," you said, even though the words felt hollow.
"You could."
He didn't move.
Didn't push.
Just waited.
And somehow that was worse.
Because you couldn't tell if he actually wanted you to stay or if he was just Jack Abbot, night shift attending, solving a problem. Couldn't tell if this was something or if you were reading into it the way you always did—seeing meaning where there wasn't any.
"Jack—"
"It's late," he said. "You're here. Just stay."
Your throat tightened.
"Why?"
The question came out smaller than you meant it to.
He looked at you for a long moment.
Then his hand dropped from your face, and he stepped back, giving you space. Letting your leg slide down until you were standing on your own again.
"Because I'm asking you to."
That was it.
No explanation. No declaration. No answer to the question you were really asking.
Just that.
You wanted to leave.
Wanted to walk out the door and prove to yourself—and to him—that you could.
But your feet didn't move.
And he knew it.
He always knew.
"Okay,"
It started small.
It was always small things with him—never enough to point at, never enough to accuse, never enough to justify the way it started messing with your head.
But you noticed everything anyway.
The way he paused—just briefly—before walking away from your station, like he was deciding whether or not to say something that wasn’t strictly necessary.
He never used to hesitate.
That was new.
And it made you hyper-aware of everything else.
He didn’t lean into the sarcasm as much when Shen made some comment that would’ve normally earned a dry remark from him. He didn’t linger in the doorway of trauma bays the way he used to, but he also didn’t leave as quickly either—like he was calibrating your distance instead of defaulting to it.
Even his silence felt different.
Intentional.
And it was fucking with you.
Because if you were being honest—if you were being brutally honest—you had built a system around the predictability of him.
Cold when he needed to be. Detached when he wanted to be. Clear lines, clear roles, clear nothing-you-could-misinterpret.
It had been easier that way.
Safer.
Even if it drove you insane.
But now?
Now there were these almost-imperceptible deviations in the pattern.
Like he was…paying attention in a way that wasn’t strictly required.
And you hated that your brain immediately started translating it into something dangerous.
Hope, maybe.
Or worse—meaning.
You were charting at the nurse’s station when he appeared behind you, not speaking right away. Just there. Close enough that you registered him before you turned.
“Can I see bed six’s labs?” he asked finally.
Normal.
Professional.
Except he didn’t leave immediately after you handed them over.
He looked at them.
Then at you.
Then back at the chart like he was stalling for time that didn’t exist.
“You didn’t get coffee,” he said.
You blinked once. “I did. Earlier.”
A pause.
“I meant since then.”
There it was again.
That thing.
That quiet attention that didn’t match the version of him you had built your rules around.
“I’ve been busy,” you said carefully.
“I know.”
You turned back to your chart like it was suddenly fascinating, because looking at him for too long felt like stepping too close to something you’d been actively trying not to name.
“You’re being weird today,” you muttered.
A beat.
“I’m not.”
You almost laughed at that.
Because if this was him not being weird, then you didn’t know what reality you were in anymore.
He finally took a step back, but not before his eyes flicked over you once more—quick, practiced, familiar in a way that made your stomach tighten without permission.
“You should eat something,” he said.
Then he walked off.
And you sat there for a second too long, staring at the space he’d just occupied, wondering when exactly “professional concern” started feeling indistinguishable from something else entirely.
Your mind thought back to that mass casualty that happened six months ago—the day that the PTMC turned dark.
All hands on deck. Every hallway filled. Every monitor screaming for attention it didn’t have time to get. Voices overlapping until they stopped sounding like words and started sounding like pressure.
You remembered moving on autopilot.
Remembered the way your body kept going even when your brain started lagging behind it.
Remembered the moment you couldn’t take it anymore.
The stairwell had been quiet in a way that felt wrong. Not peaceful—just empty. Like the building had forgotten how to breathe.
You don’t even remember deciding to go there.
Sinking down on the step with your head in your hands while everything you’d held together for the last hour finally split open without asking your permission.
You weren’t sobbing like in movies. It was worse than that—it was silent. Like your body was trying to process too much at once and failing in real time.
You heard the door before you saw him.
He didn’t ask what happened. Didn’t ask if you were okay. Didn’t do any of the things people do when they’re trying to create distance from something they don’t know how to fix.
He just came down the steps and sat beside you.
Close enough that your shoulders touched.
And then closer.
Until there wasn’t really space between you at all.
His hand didn’t hesitate when it found your back. Slow, steady pressure like he was anchoring something that kept trying to drift away.
You don’t know how long you stayed like that.
Minutes. Hours. Something outside of time entirely.
At some point, you stopped shaking.
At some point, your breathing stopped feeling like it belonged to someone else.
And at some point, you became aware of the fact that he hadn’t moved—hadn’t checked his watch. Hadn’t said a single word about needing to go back.
Just stayed.
Like leaving wasn’t an option he was considering.
When you finally pulled back, it was gradual. Reluctant. Like stepping out of water that had been keeping you alive.
You didn’t look at him at first.
Neither did he speak.
You wiped your face, exhaled once, and nodded like that was enough to reset the universe.
“Back to it?” you had said.
A pause.
Then, like nothing had happened at all:
“Yeah.”
And spent the next six months acting like something inside that stairwell hadn’t quietly rearranged itself without either of you acknowledging it.
And now, here he was, rearranging everything again.
Not in any dramatic way. Not in a way you could point to and accuse him of meaning something.
Just the damn small things.
Restocking your glitter pens without being asked. Answering patients with a clipped patience when they got too loud with you, stepping in before you even had to react. Sliding a chart back into your station that you hadn’t realized you left open, like he was quietly tidying up the edges of your shift when you weren’t looking.
It shouldn’t have meant anything.
That was the rule.
That was always the rule.
But your brain kept betraying you anyway.
Because it felt like that day in the stairwell.
And now, watching him move through the department like that again—steady, controlled, too observant for his own good—you couldn’t help the thought that crept in at the edges.
That maybe this wasn’t nothing to him either.
That maybe it had never been.
And that was the thought you needed to stay away from.
So you needed to do something drastic.
You were halfway through your coffee when the break room door opened hard enough to make you look up immediately.
Not in alarm—just recognition.
Jack stood in the doorway for a second too long, not stepping fully in right away. His attention went straight to you, skipping over everything else in the room like it wasn’t relevant.
“Why is Robby asking me about switching you to days?”
You set your cup down slowly.
Not because you were rattled.
Because you were trying to decide how much of this conversation you were willing to have before your shift even started.
“I don’t know,” you said. “Probably because it has to go through you. Staffing, scheduling, whatever.”
He didn’t respond immediately.
That was the first sign this wasn’t just about paperwork.
“It doesn’t go through me like that,” he said after a beat.
You nodded once, like that detail didn’t matter much. “Okay.”
That seemed to irritate him more than anything else so far. He stepped fully into the room now, letting the door fall shut behind him.
“You didn’t tell me,” he said.
You leaned back slightly against the counter, keeping your posture loose on purpose.
“I didn’t think I needed to.”
A pause.
His jaw tightened briefly before settling again.
“You’re changing your schedule at this hospital,” he said, more controlled now. “And I’m only hearing about it through Robby.”
“It’s not finalized yet,” you said. “It’s just a request.”
“That’s not the point.”
You watched him for a second.
He wasn’t pacing. Wasn’t raising his voice. Wasn’t doing anything obvious.
But there was something contained in the way he stood there that you were starting to recognize too well.
Like he was holding himself in place more than he was standing.
“I don’t see why it’s a problem,” you said.
“It’s not a problem,” he answered too quickly.
Then stopped.
Corrected himself, slower this time.
“It’s just…unexpected.”
You hummed slightly, almost thoughtful.
“Since when do you care what shift I work?”
His eyes flicked to yours at that, steady but sharper now.
“I don’t,” he said.
It didn’t land convincingly.
Not even close.
You didn’t push it—instead, you let the silence sit there for a moment, thickening.
When he spoke again, his voice was lower.
“You won’t be around as much.”
It came out like a practical observation, but it didn’t sit like one.
You looked down at your coffee for a second before answering.
“I’ll still be here,” you said. “Just different hours.”
That should’ve been the end of it.
It wasn’t.
He shifted his weight slightly, then stilled again like he’d caught himself mid-movement.
“You don’t work days,” he said.
It wasn’t a correction.
Something closer to resistance.
You glanced up again. “That’s not really a rule.”
“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”
Another pause.
This one was longer.
He looked like he was considering something he didn’t like the shape of.
Something quieter.
Something he was actively not letting develop into words.
“You’ll be harder to find,” he said finally.
You frowned slightly.
“I’m not disappearing.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
But he didn’t elaborate.
And that was the problem.
Because the things he didn’t say were starting to feel louder than the things he did.
You straightened a little, watching him now instead of your coffee.
“You’re acting like this is a bigger deal than it is,” you said carefully.
A beat.
“I’m not,” he replied.
It was immediate again.
Too immediate.
Then, quieter, like he was correcting something internal more than responding to you, “I just want to understand why now.”
You held his gaze for a moment.
And for the first time, it didn’t feel like he was challenging your decision.
It felt like he was trying not to lose something he wasn’t allowed to call his.
“I’m tired,” you said simply. “That’s it.”
He nodded once, but it wasn’t satisfied.
Just contained.
Like he’d accepted the answer without believing it fully.
The silence stretched again—long enough that it started to feel like a decision neither of you were saying out loud.
Finally, he looked away first.
“Do what you need to do,” he said, quieter than before.
And then he stayed there a moment longer anyway.
Like leaving first would make it real.
Like not saying anything else was the closest he could get to asking you not to go.
You didn't go home after your shift.
You went to his place instead.
The drive was short enough that you didn't have time to second-guess it, which was probably the only reason you actually showed up. By the time you were standing outside his door, your scrubs still on, your bag still slung over one shoulder, the momentum was the only thing keeping you upright.
You knocked once.
Not politely.
Hard enough that it wasn't a question.
The door opened after a few seconds, and Jack stood there in sweatpants and a t-shirt, looking like he'd just gotten home himself. His hair was still damp from a shower.
He didn't look surprised.
That was the first thing that pissed you off.
"We need to talk," you said.
He stepped back without a word, holding the door open.
You walked in, dropped your bag by the entrance, and turned to face him before he'd even closed the door fully.
"Why didn't you fight me on it?"
He shut the door carefully, then looked at you.
"On what?"
"Don't do that," you said. "The schedule change. You stood there earlier like it mattered, and then you just—let it go."
He exhaled slowly, like he was buying time.
"You said you were tired.”
"That's not an answer."
"It's the one you gave me."
You stared at him.
He wasn't deflecting exactly—it was more like he was staying behind something. Some line he'd drawn for himself that you couldn't see but kept running into.
"You do this," you said, quieter now but no less sharp. "You act like it matters. And then the second I push, you back off like it was never a thing to begin with."
"I'm not backing off."
"Then what are you doing?"
He didn't answer right away.
You took a step closer.
"You’ve been checking on me during shifts," you said. "You ask when my dates are. You ask when I’ve eaten. You don't do that with anyone else."
"You don't know that."
"I do," you said flatly. "Everyone knows that."
His eyes flicked away briefly, then back.
"So what?" he said, and there was an edge to it now. "You want me to stop?"
"No," you said. "I want you to admit what it is."
Silence.
He shifted his weight slightly, and you saw it—the crack forming.
Small, but there.
"It doesn't have to be anything," he said finally.
You laughed, short and humorless.
"Bullshit."
"It's not—"
"Then why don't you see other people?"
That landed.
You saw it in the way his expression stilled, like you'd just said something he wasn't ready to hear out loud.
"I don't—"
"You don't," you interrupted. "I know you don't. You haven't since this started."
He looked at you for a long moment, and you could see him deciding how much to give.
Not enough.
Never enough.
"That's not your business," he said quietly.
"It is if you're going to act like I'm yours without actually saying it."
His jaw tightened again, sharper this time.
"I never said you were mine."
"You didn't have to."
Another pause.
Longer.
Heavier.
He turned slightly, like he was going to move away, then stopped himself.
"What do you want me to say?" he asked, and his voice was lower now. Rougher.
"The truth," you said. "Just once."
He looked at you then—really looked—and for a second you thought he might actually do it.
Might actually let whatever he'd been holding back finally break through.
But then he shook his head, just barely.
"It's not that simple."
"It is," you said. "You're just making it complicated because you're scared."
"I'm not—"
"You are," you cut in. "You're terrified that if you call this what it is, it'll mean something. And if it means something, you'll have to actually do something about it."
He didn't deny it.
That was answer enough.
You stepped closer again, close enough now that you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands had curled slightly at his sides like he was holding himself back.
"Why do you think I asked for the schedule change?" you said, quieter now.
He looked at you, and something shifted in his expression.
Something wary.
"I don't know," he said.
"Because I can't keep doing this," you said. "I can't keep waiting for you to figure out what you want while you act like I'm the only person in the room."
His throat worked briefly, like he was swallowing something down.
"I'm not asking you to wait."
"You don't have to ask," you said. "I've been doing it anyway."
That hit him.
You saw it in the way his eyes closed briefly, in the way his breath came out just a little too controlled.
When he opened his eyes again, they were darker.
"I don't want you on days," he said.
It came out rough.
Unfiltered.
Like he'd finally let something slip that he'd been holding onto too tightly.
You stared at him.
"Then say the rest of it."
He didn't move. Didn't speak.
Just stood there, close enough to touch, looking at you like he was trying to decide whether letting you in would break him or save him.
"I can't," he said finally.
And it sounded like the most honest thing he'd said all night.
You held his gaze for another moment, then stepped back.
"Then I'm switching to days," you said.
He flinched.
Barely—but you saw it.
"And if you want me to stay," you continued, "you're going to have to give me a reason that isn't just showing up and acting like I'm supposed to know what this is without you ever saying it."
You picked up your bag.
Turned toward the door.
His voice stopped you before you reached it.
"Don't go."
You looked back.
He was still standing in the same spot, but something in him had shifted.
Something raw.
"Not yet," he added, quieter.
You waited.
He didn't say anything else.
But he didn't look away either.
"I don't—" He stopped. Started again. "I don't know how to do this."
His voice came out rougher than before, like the words were scraping their way out.
You stayed where you were, hand still on your bag.
"I don't know how to—" Another pause. His jaw worked briefly. "How to be with someone. Not like this. Not in a way that—that means something."
He looked down, then forced himself to look back up.
"I've never—" He exhaled sharply, frustrated with himself. "I've never had to name it before. Never wanted to. Because if I don't name it, then it's just—it's just there. It exists without me having to—"
He stopped again.
You could see him fighting for the next words.
"Without me having to risk it," he finished quietly.
The silence stretched.
You didn't move.
Didn't help him.
He needed to get through this on his own.
"I'm terrified," he said, and it came out almost angry. Not at you. At himself. "I'm terrified that if I call this what it is, if I say it out loud, then it becomes something I can lose. And I—"
His hands curled into fists at his sides.
"I can't lose you."
It was barely above a whisper.
"That's why I didn't fight you on the schedule," he continued, words coming faster now, like a dam breaking. "Because fighting you would've meant admitting why I wanted you to stay on nights. And I couldn't—I couldn't say that. Couldn't say that I needed you there. That I needed to know where you were, that I could find you, that you were—"
He stopped himself.
Breathed.
"That you were mine," he said finally. "Even though I had no right to think that."
You felt something shift in your chest.
"All of it," he said. "The checking on you, the showing up, keeping you close—it was because I didn't know how else to keep you. I didn't know how to just—to just be with you like a normal person. So I did it like this instead. Like I could have you without actually having to say I wanted you."
His voice cracked slightly on the last word.
"But you matter too much," he said, quieter now. "You matter too much for me to keep doing that. And I don't—I've never had that before. Never had someone matter so much that not having them felt like—"
He didn't finish.
Couldn't finish.
"I don't know how to do this," he repeated, and this time it sounded like a confession and a plea at the same time. "But I don't want you on days. I don't want you anywhere I can't find you. And I know that's—I know that's not fair, but it's the truth."
He looked at you then, fully.
Unguarded.
"I want you," he said. "I want this. Whatever this is. I just—I don't know how to do it without ruining it."
You stared at him for a long moment.
Then shook your head slowly.
"Then why," you said, voice tight but controlled, "did you say it was nothing?"
He blinked.
"What?"
"Months ago," you said. "When we—when this started. You said it was nothing. You agreed it was nothing."
His jaw tightened.
"I didn't say—"
"You did," you cut him off. "You stood there and you let me say it was casual, that it didn't mean anything, and you agreed."
"I didn't get to say what it was," he said, and there was an edge to it now. Not anger. Something closer to frustration turned inward. "I didn't—I didn't know how to say what it was."
You felt your chest tighten.
"So you just let me decide for both of us?"
"You already had decided," he shot back, quieter but sharper. "You said it first. You called it nothing before I even had a chance to figure out what the hell I was supposed to call it."
That landed harder than you expected.
You opened your mouth, then closed it again.
"It was easier," he continued, voice dropping. "It was easier to just—to go along with what you said. Because at least that way I didn't have to try and fail to explain something I didn't have words for."
He looked away briefly, then forced himself to look back.
"You named it," he said. "And I let you. Because I didn't know how to name it differently. And I was terrified that if I tried, I'd say the wrong thing and you'd leave."
The silence between you felt heavier now.
Different.
"So you just—what?" you said quietly. "You just let me carry that? Let me think that's all it was?"
"Yes," he said, and it sounded like an admission of guilt. "I did."
Another pause.
"Because it was easier than risking you," he added, barely audible.
You exhaled slowly, something unraveling in your chest that you hadn't realized was wound so tight.
"That's not fair," you said.
"I know.”
He didn't move. Didn't try to defend himself further.
Just stood there, letting you see exactly how much of a coward he'd been.
"You should've said something."
"I know."
But this time, he moved.
Finally.
He crossed the space between you in three steps, and then his hands were on you—one sliding around your waist, the other coming up to cup the back of your head as he pulled you against him.
The contact hit you like a shock.
Solid. Warm. Real.
His arms tightened around you, and you felt something in your chest crack open—something you'd been holding closed for so long you'd forgotten it was even there.
You didn't pull away.
Couldn't.
Your hands came up automatically, fisting in his shirt, and you pressed your face against his shoulder as everything you'd been carrying suddenly became too heavy to hold on your own.
He held you tighter.
Like he was trying to make up for every time he hadn't.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly, his voice rough against your hair. "I'm sorry I made you carry that alone."
You felt your throat tighten.
"I've been in love with you," you said, and it came out muffled against his shoulder. Quieter than you meant it to. "For a year."
His breath caught.
You felt it—the way his chest stuttered against yours, the way his grip on you shifted, became more deliberate.
More certain.
"I know," he said softly.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, and his hand slid from the back of your head to cup your face instead, thumb brushing across your cheekbone.
His eyes were darker now. Softer.
"I know," he repeated, "because I've been in love with you too."
The words landed between you like something fragile and vital all at once.
You stared at him.
"The whole time?" you asked, barely above a whisper.
"The whole time," he confirmed, and his voice cracked slightly on it. "I just—I didn't know how to say it. Didn't know how to be someone who could say it."
Your eyes burned.
"You're saying it now."
"I'm saying it now," he agreed quietly.
His forehead dropped to yours, and you closed your eyes, feeling the weight of a year's worth of unnamed things finally settling into place.
"Don't switch to days," he said, and it wasn't a command. It was a request. Vulnerable. Raw. "Please. Just…stay with me."
You opened your eyes.
He was looking at you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.
Like maybe you always had been.
"I'm not leaving," you said finally.
His exhale was shaky with relief.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay."
He kissed your forehead, then pulled you back against him, and you let yourself sink into it—into him—for the first time without wondering if you were allowed to.
"I love you," he said quietly, like he was testing the words out. Seeing how they felt.
You felt them settle into your chest, warm and certain.
"I love you too," you said back.
And this time, when he held you, it didn't feel like he was trying to keep you coming.
shark family with betting board chaos and predictions. requested by anon 🦆 such a cute idea! enjoying this? like, comment, reblog to let me know!
checkout my other works here!
❤︎
By the time you were pregnant again, the emergency department had already stopped reacting like it was new information.
It had become routine.
Not the pregnancy.
The way people reacted to it.
“Fourth one,” Robby said, leaning on the counter like he was calling a familiar case.
Brendon didn’t look up from the chart. “Yeah.”
Robby nodded once. “Another boy.”
“We don’t know that.”
Robby smiled. “We do.”
That should have ended it.
It didn’t.
Because Dana looked up from her paperwork and said, “We’re not doing just gender again.”
Robby immediately straightened. “Finally. Something with stakes.”
Jack added without looking up, “Weight.”
That was how it became official.
Now it was a board.
Gender. Birth weight. Closest wins.
And immediately, the assumptions returned.
Boy. 9.1 lbs.
Boy. 8.8 lbs.
Boy. 9.5 lbs.
Boy. 9.0 lbs.
Boy. 8.9 lbs.
All clustered tightly.
Because everyone remembered the same thing.
Three pregnancies. Three boys.
All big. All heavy. All consistent enough to turn into certainty in everyone else’s mind.
“It’s pattern recognition,” Jack said.
“It’s experience,” Robby corrected.
“It’s bias,” Dana added.
“It’s confidence,” Robby insisted.
Dennis hadn’t written anything yet.
He stood slightly apart, watching the board like it was making an obvious mistake.
Robby noticed. “You thinking too hard again?”
Dennis shook his head once. “Girl.”
That made Robby pause.
Then Dennis added, “And big.”
Silence.
Robby blinked. “You’re the only one picking girl.”
“Yes.”
“That’s already insane.”
Dennis shrugged. “It’s just not your pattern.”
Robby gestured at the board. “Everything here says boy.”
Dennis looked at it once. “Everything here says what happened before.”
Jack finally looked up. “You’re adjusting for prior outcomes differently.”
Dennis nodded. “Yes.”
“That’s not how most people adjust,” Jack said.
“I know.”
Robby wrote it down anyway, half amused, half annoyed. “So we’ve got one outlier.”
Dennis corrected him without looking away. “We’ve got one different answer.”
Brendon found out later. Of course he did.
Because nothing stayed contained in the ED.
“You’re doing that thing again,” he said flatly when Robby mentioned it.
“It’s not a thing,” Robby replied immediately. “It’s structured forecasting.”
“It’s gambling.”
“It’s controlled estimation.”
“It’s still gambling.”
Robby ignored him. “We added weight this time.”
Brendon paused slightly. “Of course you did.”
He didn’t participate. Didn’t look at the board. Didn’t engage. But he also didn’t stop it.
Which meant it continued.
❤︎
The ultrasound appointment was supposed to be routine.
That was always how it started.
Routine check. Routine scan. Routine day.
Except nothing about it ever stayed routine once the hospital realized you were involved.
You came in with Brendon like you always did, three boys trailing behind you like it was normal.
Robby noticed first. Of course he did.
“Don’t tell me,” he said immediately. “We’re all pretending this is just a checkup.”
Brendon didn’t even slow down. “It is.”
Robby nodded. “That’s what makes it suspicious.”
Dana sighed. “Just let them through.”
Jack looked up briefly. “Ultrasound?”
“Yes,” you answered simply.
That was enough for the entire department to collectively decide it was now relevant.
Because it was never just a checkup anymore. Not in their minds. Not when the pattern existed.
Boy. Boy. Boy.
They were too confident in it.
Even as you walked past, you could feel it. The quiet expectation hanging in the air like it had already been decided.
Inside the room, it was quieter.
The gel was cold. The screen flickered to life. The boys immediately went still in that rare way they only did when something actually mattered.
Brendon sat beside you, hand already at your back without needing to think about it.
He wasn’t tense.
He wasn’t anxious.
Just present.
Always present when it was you.
The tech moved the probe slightly.
Heartbeat first.
Then movement.
Normal. Healthy. Familiar.
Brendon watched the screen without speaking.
You felt his hand shift slightly against yours. Not tighter. Just there.
Like he was anchoring himself to the moment without making it obvious.
Outside the room, voices were already gathering again.
“Do we get to know this time?” Robby’s voice drifted in.
“It’s not a show,” Brendon said immediately.
“It kind of is,” Robby replied.
“It really isn’t,” Dana added.
Dennis didn’t speak.
Not yet.
Inside the room, the tech paused slightly. Looked again. Then smiled faintly.
“Do you want to know the sex?”
You glanced at Brendon.
He nodded once. “If it’s visible.”
The tech adjusted. A small pause. Then casually,
“It’s a girl.”
Silence.
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
Just a shift.
Like the entire room had to reorient itself around what it had just heard.
Brendon didn’t speak immediately.
He just looked at the screen. Then at you. Then back again.
Like he needed to confirm it in more than one way before accepting it.
“A girl,” you said softly.
He nodded once. “Yeah.”
And then it happened.
Not shock. Not denial.
Just Brendon getting stuck on it in the simplest way possible.
“A girl,” he repeated under his breath.
Then again.
“A girl.”
You let out a small laugh before you could stop it.
“You’re stuck on it.”
He blinked once, like he only just realized he was saying it out loud.
“I’m not—” he started automatically.
Stopped.
Looked back at the screen.
“...It’s a girl.”
That time, it wasn’t correction.
It was acceptance catching up.
You laughed again, softer this time. “Okay, I think that one’s sticking.”
He didn’t deny it.
Just exhaled slowly, still looking at the screen like it had quietly rewritten something fundamental.
“A girl,” he said again, quieter.
Outside the room, it had already turned into chaos.
Robby was pacing.
“This is not normal,” he said.
Dana didn’t look up. “It is normal.”
Robby pointed at the door. “Dennis guessed girl.”
“Yes.”
“Before anyone else.”
“Yes.”
Robby stared. “That’s the part I don’t like.”
Brendon finally looked away from the screen.
At you this time.
Not the machine.
Not the room.
Just you.
And his voice came out quieter than before.
“Four,” he said.
You nodded. “Four.”
A beat.
Then, almost like it surprised him how much it landed—
“A girl.”
You squeezed his hand lightly. “Yes.”
He nodded once.
Then again.
“...A girl.”
You smiled. “I heard you.”
That finally made him pause.
A faint shift in his expression that wasn’t quite embarrassment, but close.
“I just didn’t expect it,” he admitted.
You leaned slightly closer. “We didn’t expect anything. We just wanted healthy.”
That grounded him immediately.
A small nod. “Healthy.”
Then, softer again, like it was reorganizing everything in his mind around that one fact.
“A girl.”
Outside, Robby had reached his limit.
He turned fully to Dennis.
“No,” he said.
Dennis blinked. “No what.”
“No more guessing anything ever again.”
Dana finally looked up. “That’s not how this works.”
Robby gestured sharply. “This is not medicine. This is guessing games with lab coats.”
"It’s pattern deviation recognition," said Jack.
Robby pointed at him. “That sentence should be illegal.”
"It isn't."
Robby groaned. “Of course it isn’t.”
Inside the room, Brendon finally stopped repeating it.
Not because he stopped thinking it.
But because it had finally settled into something quieter. Something certain.
Something already his in a way that didn’t need to be said out loud anymore.
❤︎
more!! send more shark family ideas!! with the season finale, i can't believe i won't have anything to look forward to in a while...what should the next work for shark family be? let me know~
conversations overheard through the batkid com lines pt 39 (masterpost here)
Dick: -uhh, yeah i think Robin's with Red Robin tonight, over in Bristol. There's some kinda takedown RR wanted his help with, so if anything happens in the alley i'll be closest to come help.
Jason, whispering: he actually asked for Robin's presence? i thought they were fighting right now. hasn't Red been in a real bad mood since B started overseeing his operations at work?
Dick: dude- you don't even know. those two are weird. they only ever hang out when they're mad at each other.
Jason, still whispering: *slight scrape against concrete* it's like they have some sort of weird agreement to be pissed off at each other as much as possible. *quieter* awww, shit.
Dick: Agent- *laughs* Agent A told me he found the two fist-fighting in the garden. like- not sparring; brutal bloody fighting. he was about to rush out and tear them apart when they just... stopped. did some kinda handshake and went out for milkshakes together.
Jason: *quiet grunt* *smack against concrete* *light computer key tapping* ahhhhh i get it. they've found their little autistic fight buddy system.
Dick: *confused wheeze* their what?
Jason: you might wanna come over to that factory by that Thai place we went to a few weeks ago by the way. i estimate i have like, a couple minutes to download the info on these systems before they figure out i knocked out their guy and launch defence.
Dick: ...aw come on i just sat down, Hood-,
Jason, indignant: you offered-
Dick, sighing: yeah yeah fuck off, i'm coming, i'm coming. *distant pop of muscles* whaddya mean autistic fighting buddies?
Jason: *snorts* oh, back when i was on the streets a couple of kids i used to look out for did it. weren't good at regulating emotions for social situations, so whenever they got overwhelmed they'd just call their fighting buddy over and these guys would beat the shit out of each other in one of the parks in town. they were like, best friends; never held hard feelings or nothin'. i watched em' a couple times, they used to go all out. i had to set this little fucker's nose, like, three times. he was nine.
Dick: that's a thing people do?!
Jason, casual: i dunno. seemed to work though. cheaper than therapy; plus some of us used to watch on the side-lines like at a Roman colosseum. Robin definitely used to use the league fighting grounds as a way to blow off steam whenever Ra's had him in too many diplomat meetings, so i wouldn't be surprised if he kept that little coping mechanism up after being forced into the civilian school-child role.
Jason: and Red's just weird. so i buy it from him too.
Dick: *snort* wait, did you just say Ra's had diplomat meetings? in what universe was that man being diplomatic towards anything.
Jason: *light snickers* dude- Wing. you don't understand. it was a big. desert. lotta' us in there trying to hold down shady associations.
Dick: *disbelief audible* fuck off.
Jason: *wheeze* i joined like, three different opposing cults during my time there. all because Ra's or Talia pissed me off and i wanted to be rebellious for a while. diplomacy in that desert was no joke, we had to find a way to get along.
Dick: what fucking desert was this,
Jason: there was a- *wheeze* there was this shaman in this little village, right? and Ra's was terrified of her. she fuckin-, she was just a woman. literally just- like i checked. i checked her for magic. i was using the All-Blades like airport security wands on her, just checking for anything.
Dick: what do you mean; Ra's was scared of her?
Jason: HE FUCKIN' HATED HER! to this day i don't know why, she was literally just a woman; the shaman thing was bullshit. but Ra's was like. dead set on the idea that peace must be kept between us and her tribe. i'm telling you, he was terrified of her. Ra's Al Ghul's weakness is a fake shaman that lives about 5 miles out from him in a tent.
*beat of silence*
Dick: how has that not been used against him yet?
Jason: oh i did. i married her.
*two more seconds of silence*
Dick: ...sorry?
*distant bang* *unintelligible yelling*
Jason: *computer tapping stops* oh shit- ok yeah, ok so i- i did fully just yell out while undergoing a sleuth mission a few seconds ago, my bad. they found me. i gotta bounce. what's your ETA Nightwing?
Dick, indignant: NO NO- NO NO, WE ARE NOT MOVING PAST THAT LAST COMMENT. WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU MARRIED HER.
*gunshots*
Jason: it's really not that big a deal- motherfucker-
Dick: HEY- hey, Hood? that's a matter of opinion.
*thud*
Jason: OW. you piece of- *gunshots* yEAH, ain't so fuckin tough now, are we??? sorry- what were you sayin, Nightwing?
Dick: WHAT THE FUCK.
Jason: oh, dude- these guys have a- wait. wait wait wait- THESE GUYS HAVE A ROBOT OH MY G- *rapid loud gunfire*
*sudden static*
Dick: WHAT- Hood? HOOD?
*static*
Dick: YOU CAN'T DIE HOOD YOU HAVE A WIFE. FUCK- shit, fuck fuck fuck- HOLD ON. ORACLE???
*ping*
Barbara: his communicators are down. Red Robin and Robin have rerouted, is Batman still off-world?
Dick: yeah, all weekend, can you get eyes on the area?
Barbara: i'm looking, but you know Hood and his henchmen make a game out of finding and shooting all security cameras in the alley. there's a half-broken one still kind of functioning a few blocks out but all i can see is- oh fuck.
Dick: what?!
Barbara: Hood neglected to mention the size of this robot. this is some Attack on Titan level bullshit. how were they even hiding that thing- what fucking case has Hood been working?!
Dick: I DIDN'T ASK?! YOU HEARD WHAT HE- YOU HEARD HIM TELL ME HE WAS MARRIED, RIGHT? I WAS DISTRACTED.
Barbara: yeah, well you aren't gonna find out more unless you get in there and save him. i'm warning Red about the robot so he can try an EMP when he arrives. stay safe Nightwing.
*disconnecting ping*
*silence*
Dick: if i have to go to Nanda Parbat to tell a fake witch that she's been widowed i'm going to kill myself.
Could you write something for bob? Anything. I really enjoyed ‘cry baby’ if that helps.
All the best
A/n: Hiii! I was waiting for the moment when I finally get the kick to write to Bob and this was it! I actually got a bunch of ideas, but in the end I settled for this! Hope it was worth the wait - I do plan to share other tropes for Bob as well... maybe in a Cry baby universe? ;) But for now, ENJOY!
That’s my wife
Robert 'Bob' Floyd x fem!reader
⤞ My masterlist ⤝
═══════☆♡☆═══════
It was crowded in Hard Deck, as it was every Friday night. Bob usually didn't mind, always staying close to his group by the pool, but today was different. All of a sudden, he felt annoyed by the pushing bodies, making it hard for him to see the entrance of the bar. Because today was not an ordinary night at the pub. Something special was happening for Robert Floyd, thanks to special someone about to make an appearance.
And just as he thought about her, he manifested her presence into the bar.
Bob would recognize his wife anywhere. Even in a totally packed Hard Deck, where he probably wouldn't be able to find his own mother. She made her way through those sweaty bodies, her 'excuse me's and 'thank you's flowing through his ears like a sweet melody.
Bob started to look for a place to put his beer to for the time, ready to meet the girl of his dreams at the bar just like they agreed to. When he finally found a small space under the window, he heard a loud whistle. His head snapped.
"And who is this pretty lady," Hangman's voice made the whole company turn as he gazed towards the bar. "Ha, Hangman," Rooster joined him at the staring contest, nudging his ribs. "You can bet, she wouldn't go for a guy like you," he grinned, seeing Jake's shocked face. "A guy like me?" He repeated. "Then what are you? A trashcan?" He retorted, wiping the smile from Rooster's lips in a second.
Bob gulped. He followed the direction in which the two were looking.
His body froze on the spot, trying to figure out what to do. They were eyeing her. She was beautiful, as always. It was these moments, when Bob couldn't comprehend his own luck. His right hand traveled to his left, subconsciously playing with the ring on his finger. Well, shit.
"You're just worried she wouldn't go for a trashcan like you," Hangman provoked and everyone could only watch with a small smile how quickly Bradshaw took the bait. "We'll see about that," and with that, he was on his way to the center of the room, Jake Seresin right at his heels.
Bob was too stunned to do anything. Something in him started to burn, eating him from the inside, pinching every corner of his heart. But he just kept on twisting the golden ring, not noticing the questioning look Phoenix gave him. Her face twisted in surprise at first, connecting the dots pretty quick despite the silence from her best friend. But then she was right beside Bob, nudging his shoulder a little.
"Don't worry," she whispered. "She's got the same ring on her finger," Bob only managed to nod. Natasha's face brightened. "Congrats," she gave him a smile and Bob shared the enthusiasm with a small lift of the corners of his mouth. "Yeah," he said, finally picking up the courage to take a step forward. "I told her about you, although I wish this wasn't the way they meet for the first time," Natasha caught his arm in his motion.
"Hold on," she said, nodding towards the three at the bar. "I wanna see this,"
"Hey there," Rooster went all out. His huge frame surely made an entrance for him, but an additional smile and a confident greet couldn't hurt. And beside that, chicks are digging his deep voice.
Before you even got to turn around, another man was standing beside him, his smile brighter as ever. You eyed them both, with Hangman pushing Rooster to the side and stepping forward. "Is he annoying you? I can take care of him for you," Hangman cooed, not noticing your slight lean backwards, away from the two peacocks in front of you. It took you a while to recognize them, but after a few seconds, it was unmistakable who these two were. You knew them from a photo of the whole group Bob was showing you after he got back from his mission. You weren't sure if you were supposed to laugh or cry. Who would have thought you would meet like this?
☆ ☆ ☆
"That's Hangman" Bob pointed at a handsome pilot with a smile that shined with bright white teeth. "Avoid him at all cost," he looked at you, his eyes completely serious, which only made you burst into a fit of laughter. "I'm serious," he said, the corners of his mouth tugged upwards. "I can see that," you breathed, your hands travelling to his back and rubbing it reassuringly. "But noted," your kiss tickled Bob's cheek, spreading a tint of pink across his face.
"And this is?" you pointed to a tall man with a stache, his big arm hugging your husband around the shoulders. "Oh, that's Rooster," Bob's eyes softened. "And this is Nat, right?" you exclaimed, pointing at the woman hugged by Rooster from the other side. "Yeah, that's her," you two shared a smile as you watched Bob slide his fingers across the photo. "I can't wait to meet them," you said softly into the warm morning and Bob couldn't help but smile sweetly. "They mean a lot to me," he whispered back, gulping. "I know," you turned his face towards you before pecking his lips, both of you falling into a calm silence of comfort with each other.
☆ ☆ ☆
You slightley stretched upwards, trying to look past the men's broad shoulders that bumped to each other, trying to push the other out of the way. Your husband was nowhere to be seen and although you were quite enthusiastic to meet his crew, enthusiasim was pretty far from what you were feeling now. You watched the two glaring at each other and you bit back a smile. If only they knew.
"Can I buy you a drink?" Rooster pushed forward, making Hangman stumble back. "Get in line, chicken," Hangman grabbed his shoulder, forcing himself next to you instead of Rooster. "Boys, I hate to say this-" you began, your fingers falling on the ring on your left hand.
"Come on, sweetheart, let me get you something," before you could finish, you were blinded by Jake's perfect set of teeth, the photo from Bob apparently doing it injustice. "Guys-" you tried to speak up, but to no avail. "Penny, one more on me," Jake called to the woman behind the bar, who only nodded, preoccuppied with other customers. You sighed.
"Don't listen to him," Rooster touched your right hand gently, making you look at him. Ah, missed. The two completely ignored the shiny stone on your ring finger glistening in the dimmed lights of Hard Deck. You decided to let them go in this one, forcing on a straight face as they bickered with each other.
"They are all over her. Maybe I should-" Bob watched the bar, an anxiety creeping into his voice. Phoenix looked closer, noticing the crease forming between his eyebrows and the way he narrowed his eyes. His hands, unbeknownst to him, closed into fists. He was ready to shoot.
"Bob?" she grabbed him by his shoulder, grounding him. He looked at her, his brown eyes a little lost. "I've got your back," she tightened her squeez and that was all Bob needed. It was time to get his wife.
"And why shouldn't she listen to me? She obviously likes what she sees," Jake retorted, nudging you with a flirty smile. "Cause you're a casanova, Bagman," Rooster fought back. "You wouldn't smell love even if it was right under your nose," you had to pause at those words, yanking your hand from Rooster. This was going too far. Bradley looked at you in surprise, to which Hangman bursted out laughing. "You too, so it seems," he got out through heavy breaths, leaning on the bar for support. "Nice one sweetheart,"
"Speaking of love, gentlemen," a woman's voice came from behind the two competing mountains of men. They both turned to the lieutenant who grined at them. If she didn't have ears, she would be smiling all around. "Nat," you sighed in relief, recognising her immediately. "In the flesh," she grinned at you. "It's so nice finally meeting you," she said, Jake and Bradley exchanging confused looks. "Bob told me so much about you," you ignored the two, clinging to a conversation with Natasha like a tick. "Bob?!" the loud yell of both aviators brought you back to the reality. "Are you Bob's sister or some-"
"Yeah, no, I didn't have you for the types to go after married women," Nat giggled, cutting off Hangman as the two completely paled. They slowly turned towards you, their eyes falling on your left hand resting on the counter. A silence fell on the Hard Deck.
"Whose-" Rooster was the first to recover. "Mine," a bright smile blossomed on your face as you saw Bob walk from behind Natasha. "Sorry, looks like I got here first," he grinned as well before stepping in front of you. "Penny?" he called out, but he didn't have to say anything else.
That night, Hard Deck was filled with the dreading sound of a bell and if Rooster and Hangman could become more pale than they already were, they probably did. "Guys," Bob turned sround, his hand automatically traveling to your lower back. "This," he looked at you, his eyes twingkling in the warm light.
"Oh no," Hangman groaned, rubbing a hand through his face.
"Oh shit" Rooster let out.
"This is my wife,"
Your face brightened hearing the words as cheers errupted from around you - everyone ecstatic they will get a free round. And there was a lot of them. "Nice one, Bobby," Coyote and the rest joined the group, not even trying to hide their smiles. They mirrored Bob's contagious smile, the warm atmosphere spreading to everyone around. Well, to almost everyone.
"How do you want to pay?" Penny stopped by amidst pouring shots, smirking at Hangman and Rooster, both still in shock, grilled in their own embarrassment. "We-" the two looked at each other pleadingly for help from the other. "Shit," both said at the same time. "Well, lads," Payback and Fanboy patted their shoulders. "It was nice to know you," they pushed them lightly towards the door leading to the empty beach.
"I'm gonna kill you, Bagman," Rooster glared at his friend, Jake only laughing slightly. "Can you believe it? Our little Bobby found himself a wife! And I went after her!" he laughed at himself. "Yeah, cause you're a fucking idiot!" Roosters last words disappeared into the night, drowned in the laughter and chatter of the people around.
"Well, that was something," you giggled, looking back at the two men, now having it out with each other, their feet sinking in the cold sand. "You're okay? I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," Bob started to apologize but you knew how to shut him up.
"I'm okay. Better even, now that you're here," you pulled back. "And here I was, thinking that they wouldn't like me," you joked, making Bob snort as others joined you.
"Congrats, man," Fanboy hugged Bob around the shoulders, giving him a tight squeeze. "You seem like a lot of fun," Coyote laughed, pointing at you. "I sure am. If only they listened," everyone followed your motion to the entrance, "they could have had some fun too,"
Everyone laughed as you looked at your ring one more time. "But honestly, Bob, where did you find her? She's hot! Do you have siblings?" Payback had to chime in, other boys only agreeing with his statement and awaiting your answer. You only shook your head, earning a few groans from the group. "No wonder she got those two out of their minds," Natasha smirked.
"Yeah," Robert's eyes fell to the floor, suddenly feeling overwhelmed from the compliments. A sheepish smile spread on his face.
That's my wife
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Let me know how you liked this story with a like, comment and repost!
Who should be next from the Dagger squad?
If you liked this story, you might like -> Cry-baby -> 𝐋𝐚𝐰𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧
TW: Implied Non/Con, Implied Dub/Con, Kidnapping, Prolonged Captivity, Social Isolation, Stalking, Obsessive Behavior, and No Actual Incest, But Boy If Those Freaks Aren't Trying. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.
[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Finale]
If it’d only been Bruce, you might’ve been able to live with it.
You didn’t love him, but you could imagine a world where you tried to. Most of it was circumstance; as upset as you were about the whole kidnapping thing, it wasn’t exactly a Herculean feat to endear yourself to the idea of being a handsome vigilante millionaire’s stay-at-home captive-spouse. You had no room in your heart for the stoic, reclusive, untouchable Bruce Wayne, but you could remember the adoration you’d once held for your masked hometown hero, the pride that’d once given you the force of will to all-but carry a half-conscious man in a torn cowl and a familiar suit into your apartment and lie to the cops when they came knocking. If the conditions had been different, if he’d spent a little more time as something more intimate than a stranger and a little less damning than a captor, then maybe, you could convince yourself to love him. Or, convince yourself to try, at least.
But, the conditions weren’t different, and you’d never quite had the time you would’ve needed to align Bruce Wayne with his more heroic alter ego. It’d been doomed from the start – Icarus jumping from his tower, already knowing his wings were destined to fall apart.
That aside, though, there was the more glaring issue: all his fucking kids.
Calling them kids might’ve been too generous, actually. Only Damian and Duke were younger than eighteen, and as far as you were concerned, they were your saving graces – Duke for meeting the bare minimum requirements for human decency and Damian for adamantly denying you were anything but an unwanted burden on his father. The rest were more-or-less adults, as little as you wanted to acknowledge the nonexistent age-gap between you and your gaggle of stepchildren. They were grown. They should’ve known better.
Tim, for example. He had to be… what? Nineteen? It wasn’t the pinnacle of maturity, sure, but he should’ve known you’d be able to hear your own sheets rustling through the bedroom door, should’ve assumed that you’d know he’d know Bruce would be out on patrol until sunrise. He should’ve known to wait until you were in another wing of the sprawling Wayne estate, somewhere far away from the master bedroom, or better yet, skipped rummaging through your things entirely. You knew better than to dream, though.
The door was still shut, but what was happening behind it and who was responsible were both foregone conclusions. It was Tim, because of course it was Tim, and he going through your meager possessions, because what else would he wait until Bruce was gone to do? Cringing, you rested your shoulder against the steady wood and knocked gingerly. “…Drake? Are you in there?”
Immediately, the rustling stopped. You went on. “I think Bruce is out, if you need him. Is there something you’re trying to find?”
It was a good out. An easy out. Thankfully, he was smart enough to take the bait. A few seconds later, the door cracked, a disheveled Tim emerging with a dark blush spread over his pale cheeks and his hands shoved conspicuously deep into the pockets of his hoodie. It was a struggle not to roll your eyes. He couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d come out with his dick still in his hand.
Your cheeks ached as you put on your dozenth unstrained, unworried, everything’s-fine-because-why-wouldn’t-it-be smile of the day and moved aside to let him out. “I’ll let him know you were looking for him when he gets home,” you assured, like you couldn’t see the way his bright eyes were fixed to the carpeting. “I’m sorry I can’t be more help. You all are just so heroic – it’s still a little hard to believe I’m a part of this at all.”
“You’re perfect,” he muttered, and you pretended not to hear him, cocking your head to the side. When he corrected himself, his voice was a bit louder, a bit clearer. “Don’t worry, I… I found what I was looking for. You don’t have to bother Bruce.”
“Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. He’s so proud of you and your siblings, after all – it’s practically all he talks about.” A lie, but a fair one to tell. There was no reason Tim should have to know Bruce spent the majority of your time alone with his teeth buried somewhere in your neck, muttering paranoid fantasies about how many different ways you could be killed, mutilated, or otherwise indisposed by the members of his rouges gallery. “Honestly, sometimes, it’s hard not to feel like I’ve been here for years, rather than just a couple of months.”
You only realized your mistake when those bright eyes shot to you, suddenly wide and blown out with desperation. A hand darted towards you, and you stumbled out of the way, but not quickly enough to avoid Tim’s vice-grip on your forearm, to spare yourself the feeling of something cold and wet sinking into your sleeve. “You’re leaving?” The words seemed to slur together, spilling out too quickly to be restrained or refined. “You can’t leave. Bruce won’t be able to handle it, and Steph, she’ll—I mean, security-wise, we won’t be able to make sure you’re—”
Internally, you were keeping up a steady mantra of ‘Thisissogrossthisissogrossthisissogross.’
Externally, by some miracle, your smile never wavered, only growing sweeter as you cut him off with a chirping laugh. “I’m not going anywhere,” you promised, and then, after a slight lapse, “Would you mind letting go of me? It’s—uh, it’s kind of starting to hurt.”
As if on a switch, he let go of you entirely, pulling away as abruptly as he lashed out. There was a mumbled ‘I’m sorry’, and he made a swift retreat, disappearing around the next corner before you could so much as think about bringing up Bruce, again. You watched him go, only letting your expression fall once you were sure he was out of sight.
Without further caution, you slipped into your bedroom, glazing over the mess of pulled-out drawers, overturned clothes and scattered dirty laundry in favor of falling into bed, rolling onto your chest, and screaming into your pillow as loudly and for as long as your lungs would allow.
~
You tried your best never to be alone. It was a little draining, to be honest – having to keep a running chart in the back of your mind of who you could trust and who you couldn’t, constantly trying to guess whether it’d be safer to be alone with someone or if you were better off taking your chances on your own – but you’d learned your lesson the first time you’d fallen asleep in the Wayne’s at-home movie theater and woken up to Cassandra spread over you like a human weighted blanket, staring unblinkingly at your face and playing half-consciously with your hair. You tried not to leave yourself unguarded, after that.
Alfred was your first choice, Barbra your second, with Bruce as a distant third. Sometimes, you could get away with loitering near Damian (something you hated nearly as much as he did – you could only stand to be addressed as his father’s “jezebel lover” so many times), but Bruce was at one of Damian’s school events, leaving them both conveniently unavailable, and Alfred would be locked inside of his underground shooting range for another hour and a half, an activity you knew better than to interrupt. Meaning, you were on your own.
Meaning, you’d picked a very bad time to need something to drink.
The kitchen was deathly quiet, but you still made an effort to keep your head on a swivel as you made your way carefully to a corner cabinet, like stepping on the wrong tile would trigger a pit trap, or a flurry of arrows, or one of another million terrible things you hadn’t thought were possible before Bruce dedicated himself so entirely to proving you wrong. Mentally, you reviewed your haphazardly assembled schedule as you fumbled with the wood paneling and reached for a mug from the highest shelf. Tim was definitely out, touring local colleges on Bruce’s behest, Steph was supposed to be in class, and Dick—
Your fingertips made contact with cool ceramic half a second before another, larger palm wrapped around yours, a broad chest pressing into your back as your mug was stolen out of your hand. You didn’t have to look to know who it was.
And Dick was on bed rest with three broken ribs. Right. Of course.
You really shouldn’t have bothered leaving your room at all. Suddenly, dehydration didn’t sound like such a bad way to go.
“Let me get that, baby bird.” You cringed at the petname, but nodded, letting Dick confiscate your mug and with it, your ability to make a swift exit from a conversation you’d rather not have. “Green tea, right? I know it’s your favorite.”
“On the mark as always, Dick.” There was just enough enthusiasm in your voice to overshadow the despair. You waited until you heard the muted click of an electric kettle before turning around and settling against the counter. “I wish you wouldn’t dote on me, though. I already feel useless enough as it is.”
“Don’t sweat it, I’ve been going stir-crazy all week.” He flashed you a quick smile – toothy and beaming – before pulling open the silverware drawer and rummaging through it, like Alfred would keep his teabags with his cutlery. He was topless, wearing the same pair of black sweatpants he must’ve slept in. He didn’t plan to go out, clearly, and it wasn’t like you had much of an alternative. “This is just the basics, too. For a while there, I had your breakfast, lunch, and midnight snack preferences memorized.”
You forced yourself to smile, albeit, not as brightly as him. “…did you, now?”
“Mhm. B had us running in-person surveillance before he finally bit the bullet and brought you home, and—” He cut himself off with a sudden laugh, shaking his head. “And, I wasn’t supposed to tell you that part. Oops.”
Mercifully, the kettle whistled before you could start to consider the implications, and you reached behind you, fishing two bags out of a teacup-shaped jar. It was easy enough to edge him out of the way, but not having to worry about pretending he’d ever made himself a cup of tea meant he could devote more of his energy to talking, so you still managed to lose, in the end. “He’s stingier with the surveillance footage, now. I’ve never seen him so jealous.”
“He can definitely be a little overprotective.”
You tried to keep your tone even, polite, but Dick was like his siblings – quick to action and slow to take a hint. A hand curled around the counter next to you, and you dumped an extra spoonful of sugar into the darkening water. “It’s just us in the manor, right?”
Another spoonful, just to be safe. “I think Alfred is—”
“Out for the day. Wayne Enterprise emergency – I let him know as soon as he finished down in the range.” In your peripheral, you watched his other hand come to rest on your opposite side, caging you in. “I wouldn’t mind the company, if you were starting to get lonely.”
Another spoonful. It’d be too sweet to drink, but anything not to have to look at him. “I’m afraid wouldn’t be a lot of fun, Grayson. Honestly, I was just planning on getting a little sle—”
“That’s perfect,” he cut in, too eager to wait his turn. “I’m a great cuddler.”
You curled your hand around your mug, hoping the warmth would be enough to ground you. Instead, it only burnt your palm, and for a second, you could imagine a world where your teeth weren’t buried in the plush of your cheek, where you didn’t have to remind yourself that turning around and splashing boiling-hot water on an all-but superhero’s face wasn’t a good idea. For a second, you genuinely considered it.
And then, a sound not totally dissimilar to thunder filled the kitchen; loud enough to leave your ears ringing and your adrenaline spiked. You flinched into yourself, but it only took a moment for fear to shift to relief as you noticed the bullet lodged into the wood less than an inch from your head. Your expression lit up just as Dick’s fell.
Without waiting for him to let you go, you slipped away – sprinting across the kitchen and throwing yourself into Jason’s – brave, bold, beautiful Jason – chest. He caught you one hand and finished re-holstering his handgun with the other, laughing as you hugged him as tightly as you could manage. Dick huffed, playful offense failing to mask real agitation, and you felt Jason brace against you. “Jerk off and shut the fuck up, Oedipus.”
Dick’s smile turned uneasy. “It’s good to see you too, man.”
“I didn’t come here for you,” he snapped, as short-tempered with his siblings as you wished you could be. He looked down, holding you that much tighter. “How’s my best girl holding up?”
“I’m just fine, Jason. I do think we have to have a talk about how you treat your brother, though.” You glanced over your shoulder to Dick. “A little privacy? You really ought to be staying off your feet, too.”
Reluctantly, Dick slinked out of the kitchen, hesitant to go but eager to nurse his wounds. You only went on once you were sure he was gone.
“It’s been awful. I found another hidden camera in my bedroom, and I think Tim’s tapping my—”
“I’ll do a sweep.”
He let you go, but you caught his arm. “Please, I know it’s important, but—” You cut yourself off, swallowing. It was irrational – the way you let your guard down so quickly around Jason. The mask never slipped around anyone else, whether you were afraid of them or they were one of your rare, precious exceptions. Jason existed outside of the Wayne family, though, outside of Bruce’s corrupting influence. He wasn’t going to hurt you. More importantly, he wasn’t going to let anyone else hurt you, either.
“But I really don’t want to think about that, right now,” you finished. “Just… just for a little while, alright? I don’t want to constantly feel like I’m walking on eggshells, at least not while you’re here.”
Jason stood strong for all of three seconds. With the fourth, he sighed, buckled, and shook his head, his exasperation brimming with affection. “How long until Bruce gets home?”
“Six more hours. He’s not due to check-in for another three.”
“I’ve got my bike out front. How do you think he’d feel about a joy ride?”
And just like that, you lit up. “It’d give him a heart attack.”
Jason pulled you close, kissing the top of your head.
“Perfect.”
~
Unfortunately, Jason’s visits were few and far between. You had to find ways of fending for yourself, in the downtime.
“I miss the city.”
Bruce glanced over his shoulder, gaze flickering over you before returning to the buttons of his dress-shirt. You sunk that much deeper into the mess of sheets and pillows, taking some small amount of solace in the way the cool silk felt against your warm skin.
(Sex wasn’t something Bruce came to you for often, but when he did, you gave it to him willingly, albeit with no more enthusiasm than was absolutely necessary. You rarely enjoyed it and always regretted everything you did or said during the act, but it was better than the alternative. Part of you trusted him, trusted Batman, enough to believe that he’d take your refusal for what it was, that you wouldn’t have to say anything more than ‘no’. The remaining overwhelming majority was able to look around you, to remember the way he’d held you down as he forced a needle stocked with medical-grade sedatives into your throat, and recognize that your opinion probably didn’t mean very much to him. Still, you couldn’t let things get that bad. Even if you had to surrender every other facet of your being, you couldn’t let things get that bad.)
“You hated the city. You said your landlord was a tyrant and that even the criminals were living paycheck-to-paycheck.” And then, after a second of thought, “And that there were more rats in Gotham than people.”
“Well, he was, they are, and you know I love animals.” You pushed yourself up, keeping a sheet bunched against your chest as you slumped against the headboard. “I was tired and overworked – you could see that. But, things would be different if I was staying with, say, my wealthy trillionaire boyfriend in one of the penthouse apartments that I know he has because his youngest son got in trouble for bragging about them in school last week?”
Bringing up his kids was a dirty tactic – the fastest way to get Bruce’s undivided attention. This time, when his eyes shifted in your direction, they stayed there, and he made his way back to your side of the bed. He collapsed next to you and, with no resistance on your end, pulled you into his lap. He didn’t seem to care whether or not his immaculately tailored, freshly pressed suit was creased in the process, but you did your best not to squirm. “You want to leave the manor?”
The first half of a frown tugged at the corner of your lips. “That’s not what I—”
“Elevated pulse, avoidant eye-contact,” he muttered. “Something’s bothering you.”
It wasn’t a question. He wasn’t wrong, either, but still. You would’ve preferred to be asked.
“…it’s your family,” you admitted, feigning guilt. “They’re all—” Horny, depressed, creepy little orphans. “—great kids, but it’s just been so much so quickly, and I think it… I think it might’ve been too much too quickly. For them and for me.”
“They adore you, if that’s what you’re worried about. Dick was close to moving back in when I decided it was too dangerous to leave you to your own devices.”
You melted into his chest, sighing. Reflexively, he curled around you – a good thing, if a bit claustrophobic. Bruce liked feeling like a shield between you and harm, between you and the world he couldn’t control. Hopefully, eventually, he’d realize he had more to shield you from than greedy landlords and villains who always seemed to be just out of sight. “It’s not that easy. It’s just been such a rocky adjustment period, and…” You curled your hand around his wrist and squeezed, hoping the force would be enough to communicate what you couldn’t put a word to. “I’m really afraid something bad might happen, Bruce.”
For a moment, he seemed to consider it. There was a kiss to your shoulder, solemn and lingering, then another to your cheek, more fleeting. “I’ll talk to them. They’ll give you space, if they’re told to.”
If he told them to. You doubted you held much authority, here. “And the apartment in the city? On the highest floor, tall enough to see from Gotham to New York?”
Bruce smiled, and your heart soared.
Then, he started talking, and it crashed back down, dying upon impact. “Once I know it’s safe for you, sweetheart.”
There was another kiss, this one to the nape of your neck, then another, lower down on your spine. A calloused hand slipped underneath the sheet still hugged against your chest, and you allowed it to.
Honestly, it would’ve been kinder if he’d cut you into pieces and fed you to the wolves himself.
~
You made a run for it as soon as the arguing started.
Arguing, not yelling – the distinction was minor, but significant. Yelling would’ve meant an injury, or a mission gone wrong, or something else that signaled a sudden complication that couldn’t be smoothed over with sugar-sweet sentimentality or orders issues with an ice-cold strictness. Yelling would’ve meant Bruce didn’t mind letting you overhear, which usually meant you didn’t need to be involved. Arguing, all hushed whispers and hissed explanations and vague warnings, was different. Arguing meant, more often than not, that they were arguing about you.
It was Tim’s fault, as far as you could tell. Barbara had been the one to find the conspicuously encrypted file on one of Dick’s civilian devices, the one to mention it to Stephanie as a point of concern who went to Tim within the hour, but it was still his fault. He’d gotten Bruce involved, let his need for approval tip the tenuously balanced scales that kept his family whole and you safe. He’d talked them all into waiting until Dick was close enough to confront in-person, stopping by for his weekly equipment pick-up and check-in. He was the reason you’d gotten close enough to hear something about ‘pictures’ and ‘inappropriate use of reconnaissance material’ before fleeing to the mansion’s foyer – the only part of the house you could be sure wasn’t occupied. If you were lucky, you’d only be there for half an hour or so, enough time for them to compromise on some non-solution and return to your carefully maintained status quo. If you weren’t, you’d spend the early hours of the morning—
Something small but forceful hit the nearest window, shortly followed by another projectile, then another. The glass was too thick and the world outside too dark to make anything out, but you didn’t need to see anything to know who’d come to your rescue.
Jason.
You rushed to the door, then hesitated. Jason would only get a slap on the wrist for luring you out of the estate, and Bruce could never bring himself to be that strict with you, but now might’ve been a bad time. Tensions were already running high. Your little disappearing act wouldn’t—
A sudden rush of footsteps clattering through the ceiling from the floor above you, hushed voices raised just to the point of audibility. None of it was entirely coherent, but Dick’s came the closest. You managed to make out a half-choked “If you’d just let me—” before someone cut him off.
With your better judgement reduced to buzzing static, you pried open the closer of a pair of huge, mahogany doors and slipped out of the estate entirely.
Of course, Jason was waiting outside, a small stock of pebbles still in his left hand and, of course, you threw yourself at him, letting him catch and spin you twice before setting you back onto your feet with an airy laugh. A pitch-black sports car was waiting at the end of the driveway, the engine purring loudly enough to drown the rest of the world out. “Rough night?”
“You have no fucking idea,” you muttered, breathless. “I don’t care where we go, just get me out of here.”
There was a reason Jason was your favorite. There was no argument, no prying, just his arm around your waist as he herded you into the passenger seat. Fifteen minutes and a little over fifty miles later, the mansion was little more than a dull glow on the horizon, and you could pretend you’d stopped thinking about Bruce entirely.
There was no effort to make conversation, as bad as you felt about pulling Jason into your prolonged tryst with self-pity. Instead, you sunk into the leather of his seat and fixed your gaze on the passing landscape, clinging to any detail you were able to latch onto as it flew by. It was possible, between the subways and boarded-over windows and perpetually overcast skies, to go days without seeing the sun in Gotham. Still, your life had felt brighter there than it ever did in Bruce’s estate.
Jason turned down a road you didn’t recognize, and you managed to find your voice. “Are we going into the city?”
“Even better.” He flashed you a smile, the engine purring as he accelerated. “You’ll like it, I promise. Just sit tight.”
As if you had much of a choice.
Road gave way to forest, forest to empty plains, and empty plains to the dilapidated remains of what you could only label as a long-abandoned amusement park – like Disney World if there’d been some terrible, possibly nuclear accident followed by twenty or so years of absolute neglect. Jason’s car glided past the rusted remains of an iron gate, past the corpses of rides buckled under their own weight, and came to a stop in front of a paint-stripped merry-go-round almost entirely sheeted be vines and weeds and overgrowth. You let out a low whistle as he threw the gear shift into park and, for the first time in any vehicle you’d ever shared with him, pulled his keys out of the ignition. He’d always left the engine running while visiting the mansion, but then again, you’d always been pretty eager to make a hasty escape, too.
“I love it, Jason. I’ve always wanted to get tetanus from a broken down carnival.”
“A fair, actually,” he corrected, slipping his keys into his jacket pocket. Like he expected you to try and steal them while his back was turned, or something. “My parents used to take me here, before I met B. There weren’t a lot of Ferris wheels after that.”
There was a short lapse, the sound of lips moving against teeth. You made the mistake of humming, of glancing over to him, of leaving yourself open for another question, and Jason, as nice as he was, was more than happy to take advantage of you. “So, when did you and B start…”
He trailed off, drumming his fingers against the wheel. You filled in the rest with a breathy chuckle. “When did I start sleeping with your dad?”
He jabbed an elbow into your side. “First of all, you can admit you’re fucking him or call him my dad, but you’ve gotta pick one.” You opened your mouth, already ready to spit out some dumb joke about what Bruce would’ve preferred to be called, but Jason cut in, sniping your stupid joke out of the air. “Secondly, answer the question. I get enough of your diversions back at home.”
“Being a buzzkill must run in family,” you sighed, but gave in quickly enough. “It happened once before the whole kidnapping thing, when he was staying at my apartment and sleeping off a broken leg. I hadn’t even seen him without his mask on at that point, but I figured it was a sign – destiny, or something.” You did your best to smile, slumping against the door. “It was dumb. He gave me a couple weeks after bringing me to the estate, mostly because of the crying and stuff, but things started up again pretty quickly.”
“Do you… like it?”
“Do you like asking about your dad’s sex life?” He flinched back, and laughing, you went on. “I guess I don’t care. There’s not a lot else to do.” You swallowed. “Would it matter if I didn’t?”
For someone with so many questions, he didn’t leave a lot of time for yours, the hypocrite. Moving on swiftly, he asked, “And the others, have they…?”
“No.” And then, after a beat, “Not yet.”
He seemed to relax, at that. His back was still straight, his shoulders still squared, but his grip on the wheel loosened, his jaw unclenching ever so slightly. You tried the handle – locked. Obviously. As if you’d ever get that lucky.
His voice was soft, sweet. The kind of tone you’d use on a child, or an animal, or a doll. “This would probably be easier in the backseat, right?”
“Let me out.”
“So you can go where,baby? It’s just us out here.” He laughed, resting a hand on your thigh. You slammed your shoulder into the door. It didn’t budge. “Hey, hey, this doesn’t need to get rough. I’m not going to be like Dick. The others – they’ll do it wrong, treat you like a cut of meat they have to get to before anybody else. I just need to make sure you get out of this in one piece.”
Nails embedded in leather, body crammed as far from him as you could force it be. You weren’t hyperventilating, but only because you’d stopped breathing entirely. “Let me out, Jason.”
“I love the way you say my name. It’s pretty, and delicate – just like you.” He sighed, shook his head. “I know you don’t get it, but I’m just trying to take care of you, like you’ve been taking care of me for the past few—”
“Stop acting like I’m your mom.” A sob fractured the final syllable, another bubbling up from deep in your chest a moment later. Your body was beyond the point of rationality, but the soft, preservational part of your mind wasn’t so beyond the point of seeking refuge. There was a way out of this, as ghoulish as it seemed. You couldn’t stop it from happening, but you could make it better. You’d regret it in an hour, when it came time to explain yourself to Bruce, but what happened in an hour didn’t matter, not if you couldn’t survive the next few minutes.
You might’ve done it, too – or, you might’ve tried, at least. You wanted to. You planned to. And yet, when you opened your mouth, there was only one thing you could seem to say. “I don’t want to do this, Jason.”
His nails bit into your thigh, his smile easing at the corners. For a second, you almost thought he’d pull away. For a second, you almost thought he’d sigh, straighten back up, and admit this was all part of some cruel, unfunny joke that the two of you would remember fondly, later on.
Then, he laughed and leaned forward, lips brushing against the top of your head. You felt him speak before you heard his voice, but the cloying reverberation alone was enough to tell you that you would’ve been better off never saying anything at all.
Summary: A little blurb about Steve and all the head damage causing him to have some eye problems cause why not.
Annie chats: I apologise for any mistakes made, I wrote this at like, 3 am
Please do not copy and/or translate my work. Like and reblog if you can (and want to) <3
Classification/warnings: fluff, steve and reader are dating, reader is not described physically, steve is insecure about needing glasses.
Steve Harrington used to be the king of Hawkins High. Untouchable, unstoppable. Until a kid named Dustin Henderson carved his way into his life and Steve was dragged through what could only be described as a nightmare.
You come into the story in a similar way, Nancy kind of involved you into the Upside Down. Between a lot of shit you went through, you and Steve fell for each other in the amidst of chaos.
You both went to hell and came back. Multiple times.
But Steve had a knack for keeping people safe, meaning he kept throwing himself first so you were fine, which also means he got hit in the head multiple times.
In this world, everything has a price you eventually need to pay.
Steve can’t see. He’s been squinting to read things anywhere – ranging from books to labels. One time he almost knocked on someone else’s house cause he didn’t see what street he turned into, luckily, he noticed it wasn’t yours when he got close enough to the door.
It doesn’t take long for you to notice the squinting or the sudden headaches he’s been having. As of now, he’s lying on your couch, trying to read a book you recommended.
“You’re squinting” You say, suddenly
“What? No I’m not” He answers in the same beat
“Uh, yes, you are. You’ve been doing it for weeks now, I noticed.” You say, moving around your place before flopping down besides him. “Have you ever been to an optometrist?”
“No, why?”
“You should get your eyes checked.” You say, looking at him.
“Honey, I don’t need glasses”
“I’m not saying you do. But it’d be good to know. Just to check that all the hits you got haven’t done anything.”
A beat passes
“Do you want me to get checked?” He asks
“…Kind of? Just to be safe, clear things up.”
He looks at you and mutters a small “Fine”.
Three days later, Steve goes to the appointment while you’re at work. He didn’t really want you to know or to go with him because just the idea of having to wear glasses feels scary.
Why? Well, turns out that all those years spent on top of the hierarchy in High School actually does cause you to deem what you think is valuable and what isn’t. And wearing glasses has always meant you’re not worth as much as you are without them, which makes him terrified of how you’ll react.
Because if he’s not worth anything anymore, why would you stay with him?
In the waiting room, he doesn’t relax, and when it’s his turn to go inside and do the test, he’s already sweating. He explains to the doctor he’s had a concussion “while playing basketball” and that lately he might’ve been having some trouble with reading things.
The doctor shows him a screen, asks him to read the letters and as they get progressively smaller, Steve can’t see them.
He does that three times with different letters, numbers and distances.
He still can’t read the last row.
The news are immediate, easy delivered by the doctor:
“Well, Mr. Harrington, it appears you need reading glasses.”
The doctor’s words tilt Steve’s world, ironically, upside down.
“Can’t I wear contacts?”
“No, not for your case, I’m afraid. But it’s only for reading and driving, of course.”
“Yeah. Right. Great.”
“Well, that’ll be all.”
Just like that, the exam ends and Steve is left with that small paper that tells him he’s not that good anymore.
Steve decides to end it as quick as possible, the faster you rip the bandaid off, the less it hurts. He immediately starts heading to a store to get the glasses done, he picks the first frames he sees and buys them.
“At least I don’t need them all the time” He thinks to himself.
When he picks you up after work, he doesn’t comment on anything, afraid that only mentioning the outcome of the appointment will be enough for you to stop liking him.
Yes, he knows it’s stupid, but he can’t help it.
-
A couple weeks later, he gets the glasses and hides them in the drawer of his bedside table, he doesn’t even want to risk the chance of you seeing him differently. So he hides, he only wears glasses when you’re not around and when he drives by himself.
Until one day, you catch him off guard. You go to his place after work, it completely slips his mind that he’s got them on as he opens the door.
“Hi, sweetheart”
You stop dead in your tracks, you look at him and his little frames
“Glasses. You have glasses? Since when?”
Steve feels his heart drop.
“I- Yeah, yeah, I got my eyes checked… like you told me to…”
You break a smile and surge forward, holding his face
“Oh, honey, they fit you well!”
His heart doubles in size at that moment
“You like ‘em?” He asks shyly, you nod.
“Why, don’t you?”
“I mean…they kind of make me look like a dork. Don’t you think?”
You stare at him, confused. It seems like he just really needs to talk about this deep insecurity
“Steve, what are you on about?”
“Like, my eyes don’t work and I’m just not…worth all that anymore. Y’know?”
You look at him and say
“Baby, you do know I wear glasses too, right?”
Now that’s new, he never saw you with them, how come you wear glasses and he never noticed?
“I wear contacts. I can’t see shit if it’s too far from me. Trust me, your eyes are the least of my worries. Alright?” You give him a peck on his lips. “Now, what’s for dinner?” You say, already changing subjects in that typical you way of doing
In that brief moment, he’s amazed by how quick you were to assure him. In that moment, his insecurities fly over his head because of how you make him feel safe.
In that moment, he notices just how much he feels for you.
And in the next morning, when he wakes up besides you and puts his frames on, he thinks that maybe what people think doesn’t matter that much anymore
